


Simple

by languageintostillair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Is Not Just a River in Egypt, Two-year Time Jump, Unplanned Pregnancy, and a lot of working things through in between, i suppose this diverges from 8x05 in a sense, that sense being jaime doesn’t die but i don’t explain how, when therapists don't exist and they have to do the damn counselling themselves, yes i too am shocked at myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: And so, at the end of all things, Brienne returned to Tarth alone, a knight and a lady both. And Jaime—Jaime, who is alive, who had knighted her and bedded her and left her—returned alone to Casterly Rock. One of them on the eastern coast, and the other on the west.It really is as simple as that.It is also as simple as this: sometimes, it only takes one night.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 965
Kudos: 723





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s 20-fucking-20 and I’m writing a fix-it okay?

The war ended, and they lived. It is as simple as that.

No, it is even simpler: it is over. The war—no, _wars_ , and everything that had unfolded in the weeks between them. Two queens are dead now, and she and Jaime just happen to be breathing still. That is how simple it is: it is over.

She had been there to witness the end—on one battlefield, if not another. She had been there amongst the funeral pyres. She had been there, too, at the trials, the city still burning around them. Then there were the brief, painful, silent visits to prison cells; the negotiations, after. The release. _His_ release.

In a courtyard, the ground white with snow. The end of all things.

She is alive. So is Jaime.

Still, it is nothing like what she thought it would be. Not for her, at least. She thought she might die fighting in the icy night, or serve for years by Lady Sansa’s side, or be called to yet another Kingsguard. Some nights in Winterfell, in the time when he had warmed her bed, she had permitted herself to think that they might be together, and happy. But it is none of these things, in the end. Instead, it is he as Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West; it is she as the Evenstar of Tarth, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. Lord Tyrion had bargained for his brother’s life, reasoned that it was the right and stable choice to heal the Seven Kingdoms; Gendry had forsaken his lordship—a position for which he had no experience, nor inclination—to be Arya Stark’s companion, if she would not let him be her husband.

And so, at the end of all things, Brienne returned to Tarth alone, a knight and a lady both. And Jaime—Jaime, who is alive, who had knighted her and bedded her and left her—returned alone to Casterly Rock. One of them on the eastern coast, and the other on the west.

It really is as simple as that.

It is also as simple as this: sometimes, it only takes one night.

It is not, strictly, _one_ night. But it feels like it is, coming so long after the nights they had shared before. It has been almost two years since then, and Brienne feels as if she has lived another lifetime in between. She has spent that life serving not a king or queen, not a lord or lady, but the people of her region. After the wars, there was rebuilding to be done in the Stormlands, no different than every other part of Westeros. But there was no more House Baratheon to lead it, none of its three brothers nor any of their children. Instead, all they had was her. 

Of those who had heard tell of her story, some thought her a hero, and others a traitor. Some others, she was sure, knew not what to think of her at all. Yes, she had proven herself a warrior, a commander, a knight—none heard of how she had been knighted, only that she was—but before that, she had killed one Baratheon to avenge another. Before that, she had been accused of killing that other, _her king_ , had been forced to escape from his camp in the dead of the night. And before that, she was merely the ungainly, unbecoming daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth. Perhaps some still remembered her three broken betrothals. House Caron, House Connington, House Wagstaff—they all thought they were doing the Evenstar a favour by even deigning to consider his daughter. She is their liege lady now, here at the end of all things. The world has been turned on its head more times than anyone can count.

Betrothals. In the last two years, few dared tell her that she should find a match. One of these few was Lord Tyrion, who had gently suggested it a handful of times; once even when Jaime was present, not that his presence had any bearing on the matter. Lord Tyrion, and others, would advise that she do so for the peace of the realm, or to strengthen her position as Lady Paramount. Neither of those, however, struck her as a particularly good reason to marry. Their opposites might well be true—marriages have been known to start wars, and husbands have been known to quell even the most headstrong of wives. She would not start a war, and she would not be quelled. It is over, and she is alive; she will remain alive on her own terms, here at the end of all things.

So there were new impressions to be made, new alliances to be forged, and Brienne of Tarth was not made for making impressions and forging alliances. But she was once charged to be brave, charged to be just, charged to defend the innocent; she had been and done those things for most of her life, before those words were ever spoken to her. And that was how she chose to rule, as a knight and a lady both. That was how she proved herself worthy of her titles, and earned the loyalty of her people—bannermen and smallfolk alike. Two years on, there is still rebuilding to be done in the Stormlands, and its people trust that Lady Brienne will continue to do it well. 

She does it well, in part, by staying. Few occasions bring her beyond the borders of the region, and she has little time for or interest in what others might call diplomacy. She had made one trip to the North, at Lady—no, Queen Sansa’s request; she visits King’s Landing for the more pressing official matters, and that is all. It means she meets Jaime only rarely, and speaks to him even less. This is good. It is how it should be, at the end of all things. There is rebuilding to be done, things to be put back together. Jaime is not for putting things back together.

But Jaime, her body remembers, is for other things. For two years she has willed her body to forget them, until it seems almost as if Winterfell had never happened, or even Harrenhal. Still, her body has not forgotten, not truly, not when it is a forgetting that requires constant effort and a steadfast resolve. Both effort and resolve have been eroded by days of gruelling meetings regarding the defence of the Seven Kingdoms, for which she had been summoned to King’s Landing. She, and Jaime, and so many other familiar faces that had been easy to forget back in the Stormlands. So when those days of gruelling meetings are finally done, when they bury their heated debates in feast and celebrate their successes with drink, her body remembers a night not unlike this one. Her body remembers _surviving_ , remembers relief, remembers games and ill-chosen questions and leaving before the rejoicing is done. This night does not unfold in quite the same way, but her body remembers Jaime—from that night, and the nights after that, remembers when they would steal from the dining hall at Winterfell with pointed looks and secret smiles—and, perhaps more significantly, her body has forgotten enough of him.

Then there is a chamber, a fire burning in the hearth. There is wine in both their bellies, and desire too. There are less words than before, because there is nothing left to say; not japes, or barbs, or worst of all, apologies. There is awkwardness, still, but that is better than hurt. And then they fuck. It is as simple as that, two years past the end of all things. Fucking to remember. Fucking to forget.

Sometimes, it only takes one night. 

And then there is a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I’m just going to be upfront and say I have no idea where this is going beyond like, six lines of dialogue. Also, I wanted to wait till Chapter 2 to add the Unplanned Pregnancy tag, so if that’s a squick/trigger/dislike for you, I apologise!


	2. Chapter 2

For two moons after that night, a child does not exist. For two moons after that night, Brienne does not think of how she had slipped from the chamber before dawn. She does not think of how she had allowed herself to fall asleep beside him—her lids too heavy from the wine, and the pleasure—and how she was glad that she had woken before him, and been the one to leave first. Most of all, she does not think of how much he remembered her body—the way he still seemed to know exactly how to touch her, where and when and for how long. It is not just her body that remembers, then. But she does not think of that.

She does not think of moon tea, either, though he had spilled inside her. She is not entirely sure how that came to be. She might have told him that was fine, in her drunkenness; or perhaps she had asked him to, and he complied. In any case, it had happened. There had been moon tea back in Winterfell—she can still taste its bitterness on her tongue, two years on—but in the rush to depart from King’s Landing the next morning, there had been no opportunity to make any discrete requests. Then, there are matters to attend to back on Tarth, some threat of pirates; the threat does not ultimately manifest, but her mind has been occupied enough. She does not think about that night. She does not think of moon tea. 

When she misses her moon’s blood once, it does not strike her as odd. She has a warrior’s body, after all, and the strains and stresses of her duties as Lady Paramount. When she misses it a second time, it does not much bother her still. She had missed her moon’s blood many times before in her life, with no other symptoms to accompany it, and there was almost never any cause to worry why. It is, in the end, the queasiness that makes her call for the maester. It must be nothing, she assumes, a meal that does not agree with her, but it is still better to be certain. Instead, the maester knits his brow, and clears his throat. He asks questions she does not think should be pertinent for an upset stomach. Then he bows his head, and says: _Forgive me, my lady, but is there a chance—might you have…_

Two moons after that night, there is a child. Brienne cannot see it or feel it, but there is proof of it now, a maester’s word. There is, of course, the slim chance that he could be wrong. He could have misinterpreted the signs. Yet somehow, she knows that he did not. There is a child, growing inside her, who has been growing inside her for the past two moons. She is quite certain of that.

As the maester murmurs his advice—what to eat, what to avoid, how to move and even sleep—she feels her mind drift off, somewhere out to the sapphire seas. A child. How strange. She never thought her body was made for such a thing. 

_My lady_ , she hears the maester say, and she turns her head to him. _Is this something that… pleases you?_

There is something hidden within that question; a few suggestions, maybe, about intentions and other paths. It is no secret that she will not marry, and now she is with child. Perhaps she might still want to think of moon tea. Well, if she chooses to, another day or two will not make a difference, will not turn two moons into four or eight. So she does not address any of the layers in his words, not even the layer that sits right at the surface. She answers him only with thanks; he understands, and takes a step back. Before he leaves, he offers to prescribe her some herbs for her discomfort, and she agrees on the condition that he prepares them himself. Her health will remain her concern alone, she reminds him, and he nods as he retreats from her quarters. 

After that, she goes about her day as she always does. She does not think about the child or its father. The herbs soothe her, and it is as if nothing has changed. As she climbs into bed that night, she could almost believe that nothing has. Her sleep is deep, dreamless, and when she wakes she thinks for a moment that yesterday was the dream. There is no child. There is no child.

Perhaps she might still want to think of moon tea.

There is, however, the question of an heir. As it stands—if there were no child—her title would be passed on to a distant cousin in the event of her death. That is another reason Lord Tyrion had urged her to marry, but if she would not marry for peace or for strength, then she would not marry to produce an heir. There is nothing so objectionable about that distant cousin, as far as she knows. Now, though, there is a child; Brienne cannot see it or feel it, but there is proof of it now, a maester’s word. It will be a bastard, as things stand, and if she does not think of moon tea. She wonders what Lord Tyrion might say to that, or the King.

Another day goes by, and another. Each morning she wakes and thinks there is no child, but there is. She has to make a trip to Storm’s End, and now two weeks have passed. In these two weeks, she has thought of moon tea very little, which seems enough of an answer to her. There will be a child. There will be a child.

This child has a father.

Perhaps she might not need to tell him. She could raise this child here, on Tarth, request that the King legitimise them when the time comes, or not at all. She never has to reveal the identity of the father. Jaime might have his suspicions, but who is to say she has not claimed a lover in their time apart? Who would dare question her now, dare laugh and think it impossible for Brienne the Beauty? She is Ser Brienne, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the Evenstar of Tarth and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. She can have a child without naming the father if she so chooses.

Her bravado comes in waves, and never lasts long. There is a child, growing inside her. This child has a father.

She sits down in her solar one afternoon, sheets of paper laid out on her desk before her. She dips her quill in her inkpot, and begins to write. _Lord Jaime._ Not _Ser Jaime_ , as she had addressed him for years, or _Jaime_ , as she had addressed him for weeks. She had called him _Kingslayer_ longer than she had called him _Jaime_. But it is _Lord Jaime_ now, and she has to start each version of her letter with that. Every sentence she composes seems wrong, every word, every way she writes his name. _Jaime. Jaime. Jaime._ She had not said his name in bed that night, she remembers now. Not even once.

 _Lord Jaime,_ the final version of her letter says. _I hope this letter finds you well. I must speak to you, in person, on an important matter. If you can spare the time to come to Tarth, or to meet me in King’s Landing, I will be most grateful._

It is a letter that says nothing. But Jaime will come, she thinks; he came for her once before, to fight a war by her side. She can depend on him in that respect, just as she can depend upon him leaving too. They will simply have to settle things in between.

So she sends a raven to Casterly Rock. And then, she waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is totally fine and normal and Brienne isn't thinking about anything. Who needs moon tea or feelings? Not her!


	3. Chapter 3

It takes another moon or so, but Jaime comes. He writes only once in the meantime, to tell her he will make the trip as soon as he can conclude some business in Lannisport. _Do not trouble yourself with a trip to the capital_ , his letter says. _I will come to Tarth._ Polite, determined words, so at odds with his unsteady scrawl. It is less unsteady, these days. She imagines he must have had more practice with his left hand in the last two years.

When his ship arrives, she is not there to meet it. She has had, for some weeks, an aversion to the stronger smells of the harbour; she could tolerate it if she must, but that effort seems better spent elsewhere. She sends her steward to welcome their guest instead, and to show him to his quarters so he can get some rest after his long journey. Still, she watches him from her window as he disembarks. He is far away, tiny, but she knows it is him.

She should have dined with him that evening; it’s what a better host would do, or a host in better circumstances. But the child has changed her body, made it—not _weak_ , exactly, but _fickle_. At least, that is what she tells herself when she sends word that she will have to see him in the morning. _Lady Brienne is indisposed_ , they will say to him. _Indisposed_ could mean anything, means nothing at all. It means she sleeps little that night, and wakes feeling more indisposed than the evening before.

The morning is bright, cloudless, unforgiving of her fatigue; when she enters her solar, it is bathed in merciless sunlight. It is this light in which she sees Jaime at last, Lord Jaime in his Lannister finery. Less ostentatious, perhaps, than Lannisters that came before, but still luxurious if one cares to look: a maroon velvet doublet, well fitted, with a small lion embroidered in gold over his heart. There is gold, too, in his skin, his hair. It has dulled over the years—his beard, well-groomed, is mostly grey now—but he is still golden regardless. He will always be golden, no matter how much he greys or wrinkles. It is one of those simple, unavoidable truths.

When he is escorted in, his presence announced, she has already been at her desk for an hour. There is correspondence to attend to this morning, but she has barely read one letter, let alone written her reply. Too late; Jaime is here. She rises from her chair to greet him, and feels suddenly conscious of Oathkeeper, propped up against a wall behind her. She has hardly any use for it now beyond the training yard, or the rare pirate attack, but she still keeps it with her always. Habit. She had been told once that it would always be hers, by the man who is darting his eyes to it now.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, looking back to her before bowing his head.

“Lord Jaime,” she replies, bowing hers. She has not moved from behind her desk.

“I trust you are well.”

“I am. And you?”

“Yes. Quite well.” Then he pauses, lifts his hand slightly—his right, wood now rather than gold, yet somehow golden still—and brings it back down to his side again. “When we last… met. You didn’t—” He pauses again. “I did not have a chance to bid you farewell.”

She is tempted to remind him of a time when he did not offer her that chance, when it was she who had to go in search of a goodbye. Instead, she opens her mouth to invite him to sit—he must sit, for what she has to tell him—but before she can say a word, he lets out a soft _oh_.

“… Oh?” she repeats.

“Oh.” His eyes fall to her belly. “You’re… with child.”

Her jaw clenches. She did not think it so visible already, though she can feel the flesh of her belly pushing against the inside of her jerkin. “You can tell?”

He nods. “There’s something—softer, about you. Your body. And—”

He doesn’t continue. That is what she prefers. She feels tense, already, from how he had held those words on his tongue. _Your body._ She does not want to know what other things he has noticed about her body—how this means there are things he remembers—when he has only just stepped into her solar.

“Yes,” she says, pulling her shoulders back. “Yes. I am with child.”

It is the first time she has said it out loud since she found out almost two moons ago. Most of her household is aware by now, but only because she had granted permission to the maester to tell those who must know for the sake of her care. She has never said it herself, until now. There is a child. This child has a father.

The child’s father nods, does not ask if this is why she had asked him to come. He does not ask, either, if he is truly the father. She does not know what to make of this: should she be offended, that he assumed so readily that it must be his? That he might not think to ask if it could be someone other than him? But she would have been offended if he had asked, she thinks. Of course it is him. There has never been anyone else.

“So—when should we do it?” is his question instead; a question she cannot understand.

“Do what?” she asks.

A frown settles on his brow. “Why— _marry_ , of course. There is a sept, yes?”

“ _Marry?_ ” A _sept_? He must not think—

“Is that not why you asked me to come?”

She has to set her fingers, all of them, on the edge of her desk. “I… Well, _no_.”

“No?” His frown deepens. “You asked me to come all this way—”

“I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord,” she snaps, too quickly. “I offered to meet you in King’s Landing, if you recall.”

“That is not what I—” He closes his eyes, and takes an audible breath. “Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, “why did you write to me then?”

“I… I thought it was only right that I tell you in person. Rather than have you find out through—rumour. Or surprise.”

He nods slowly. “Is that all?

“I hoped to discuss how we should proceed.”

“I see. You… There are other paths you had in mind, then. Besides marriage.”

“Yes. Well. Heirs.” Each word comes out haltingly, makes no sense at all. She does not know what she hopes to imply.

“Heirs are usually the result of marriages,” he points out.

“The king could legitimise—”

“Of course. That too, if he could be convinced. And you mean to raise the child as a bastard until then?”

She does not answer. She had thought it possible, this act of defiance, but now…

“It is not easy,” Jaime adds. “The life of a bastard.”

“Or a wife,” she murmurs, casting her eyes down to the unanswered letters.

There is silence from Jaime at first; she will not look at him to see the expression on his face. “Is it marriage you object to, then?” he asks after a while, “or the husband?”

She has no answer to that either. She does not know why she had asked Jaime to come, when she has no answer, no plan, nothing to discuss with him. She does not know why she had snuck away to a chamber with him four moons ago, and let him spill inside her. He would not have spilled inside her if she had not allowed it. Why had she allowed it? Four moons ago, and two years ago?

She has no answers, and hears no more questions. When she next lifts her head, Jaime is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are very dumb~~~~~~
> 
> (I feel like I should say that I know that it seems Jaime isn't being particularly sensitive about the whole... leaving-her-in-Winterfell thing and how she might not want to forgive/marry him after that. But I will address it of course.)


	4. Chapter 4

She does not see Jaime again for the rest of the day, and by sundown she is half expecting that he will be aboard his ship in the morn. If he is, perhaps it is for the best. She had informed him of the news in person; or rather, he had made the necessary deductions. It is the bare minimum she had hoped to achieve from his visit, and at a later date they may correspond about any further arrangements. Not now. Not when his offer had been—

It was not an offer. It was assumption, careless and cutting, worse than any insult he has ever thrown her way. An assumption that _she_ had offered, simply by summoning him to her island. In the moment, it had perplexed her and unsettled her. Once he had left her solar, it began to infuriate her. As the hours pass, though, the strange tightness in her chest clears—the tightness that overcomes her whenever she sees Jaime in the flesh, and makes it difficult for her to keep everything in its right place. It is clear to her now that it must have seemed the reasonable, practical, even _honourable_ path in Jaime’s eyes. She had asked him to come all this way, as he said, with the intention of informing him of her condition; they are a lord and a lady, and it would be a politically advantageous match in this time of precarious peace. Three times over, he had watched as his children were claimed by another man, his sister’s husband, for the sake of legitimacy. What should be shocking is not that Jaime had assumed, but that Brienne had not.

She thinks on this as she prepares for bed, her fingers working at the laces of her jerkin and breeches. She pauses when she hears murmurs outside her door, two voices, something that sounds like _I would speak with your lady_ , and _my lord, it is late, my lady has retired for the night_ —

Cursing, she hastily ties her laces into loose knots as she heads for the door. When she opens it, there is her guard—she does not typically see the need for guards while she is at Evenfall Hall, but it had been insisted upon given her condition—and Jaime next to him. His velvet doublet has been exchanged now for a leather jerkin and breeches that match her own.

“My lady,” the guard bows, “I am sorry to disturb you at so late an hour, but your guest—Lord Jaime is—”

“I was wondering if you might like to spar,” Jaime says.

“Now?” she replies, her own voice strained. “It is late.”

“If you are willing. Just wooden swords, like green squires. And if—” he flicks his eyes towards her guard, unsure— “if your _condition_ allows—”

“My _condition_ is not a concern,” she cuts him off. _Spar._ At this time of the night, with a child growing inside her. With _Jaime_ —she has not sparred with him since… since Winterfell. There are so many reasons to say no to this request, this impertinence. Yet some part of her is curious. There have been two years of peace in the Seven Kingdoms, no reason for Jaime to ride into battle, but has he trained? Has he improved? How would he match her now, with his left hand, and the child growing inside her?

So Brienne finds herself agreeing. She retreats into her quarters to retie her laces properly, but within a few minutes she is walking with Jaime to the training yard. There is a full moon out tonight, she observes, so there should be just enough light by which to spar. Two years ago, they had fought a long battle in the darkness; tonight will seem bright as day compared to that.

“I… This morning,” Jaime breaks the silence.

“Yes,” she replies, almost missing a step.

“I did not mean to—I presumed—”

“Yes. And I… I did not.”

He sighs. “What I… suggested. It was only what I thought would be best for the babe.”

This stings; she does not understand why. “I know,” she says, looking straight ahead.

“I have no intention of— _trapping_ you. We could agree on—you would not have to… do anything you do not wish to do.”

“Really,” she says, more bitterly than she intends.

“I know that I am not…”

He trails off; then there is only the sound of their footsteps on the stone. Suddenly it seems as if Jaime is always one step ahead of her. Suddenly she is reminded that it has always felt that way. He had armed and armoured her once, protected her many more times—from men, and bears, from wights and still more men. From his family, and himself. Suddenly she despises him for it all. She does not want to be saved by Jaime yet another time, not from being the mother of a bastard, or the wife of a hateful man. So, in spite of all she had reasoned this afternoon about what had happened in the morning, what she says next is this:

“Your suggestion. Is this a privilege you would offer to the servant woman that warms your bed?”

It had come out of nowhere. From her anger, yes, but the specificity of her proposition… Still, the point stands. There would be no offer if she was not of noble birth, perhaps not even if she was still simply a knight. She is five paces ahead when she realises Jaime has stopped; she turns to see him frowning at her.

“There is no servant—there is no _woman_.”

That had not been her point; it matters not what the Warden of the West wishes to do in the privacy of his quarters. Yet these are the words that will not move from her mind as they spar. There is no woman. There is no woman.

There is a child.

This child has a father.

Their sparring is child’s play, by their standards. By the standards that her body remembers. Wooden swords, like green squires, Jaime had said. Even with that, she can tell that his left has become stronger, quicker, more confident; she can tell too that he is going _easy_ on her. Because of the child? She will not allow it. She advances, puts more strength into her strokes, pushes him, _dares_ him. He smirks; she will not allow that either. Jaime has not smirked at her in two years. There is sweat beading already on her brow, with _wooden swords_ , for Seven’s sake, barely a fraction of the weight of Oathkeeper. She will not allow it. It is the warm air of Tarth. It is the child growing inside her. It is _there is no woman_ , and she will not—

She slips. It is only a little, but it is enough to make Jaime drop his sword and grab her by the arm. She will not allow it; she is no fainting maid. She shrugs his arm away and his smirk turns into a grimace. Not just a grimace—something more, some irritation _at her_. He has _no right_. She will not allow it. She raises her sword arm again but he catches it by the wrist, and she _does not want to be touched by him_ , she who is carrying his child. She glares at him, tells him to let go without using words. He does not. Instead—

She should not allow it. She should push him away, demand that he get on the next boat, and she should not care if it is a rickety old thing that will sink in the middle of the Narrow Sea with him in it. She should raise this child a bastard, _damn him and any offer or assumption of marriage_. Instead, she is kissing him in the middle of the training yard by the light of the moon, their pathetic wooden swords on the ground by now. Already he is fumbling at her laces with his ridiculous left hand—more practised, now, but not with any other woman if she believes his word—and _she should not allow it_ , not here, not anywhere. But she allows it. She _helps_ him. She pulls him to the nearest wall so he can take her against it. She takes pleasure from this too; she will allow it. Fucking to remember. Fucking to forget.

Let him spill inside her again. It will make no difference.

Afterwards, trembling, Jaime still holding her up against the wall, she feels his lips brush against her ear. “I am—” he breathes, and she thinks he is about to say _sorry_ , and that she will run him through with her wooden sword if he does, impossible as that might be. But he finishes, instead, with— “happy.”

“Happy?” she croaks.

“Yes.” He leans back so he can meet her eyes. “About—the child.”

It is not _sorry_. It might be worse. But she finds she can only stare at him, lit as he is by the dim light of the full moon. He is still golden, somehow. It is so, so awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look... these are not... emotionally healthy people...


	5. Chapter 5

That night, she dreams of Jaime. She has not dreamt of Jaime in a long time. But her dreams are nothing fantastical, so perhaps it is more accurate to say they are memories. It is Jaime gifting her Oathkeeper first; then his screams as his hand was taken from him. It is him astride his horse in the Lannister camp; in chains in the Stark one. It is his body in her arms in a bath; his body in her arms in a bed. His body pressed against hers, a wall at her back.

In a courtyard, the ground white with snow. The end of all things.

_I am happy_ , he whispers. _About the child._

When she wakes, it is not yet light. She is hungry, or the babe is; she would go in search of food herself, but she does not wish to see anyone. Just last week, she had made her way to the kitchens hoping only for some leftover pie, and had been caught in a conversation with an enthusiastic cook who also happened to be the mother of six children. Brienne had smiled, nodded, listened to the advice of a woman who was younger and yet more experienced; she had learned how to smile, nod, listen, in her last two years as Lady Paramount. _Are you excited, my lady?_ the cook had dared to ask, beaming at her. Some of her household was friendly with her, that way. But Brienne had been so unsettled by the question that she had not managed to answer it.

_Excited. Happy._ Is this how one is supposed to feel about a child? She has no mother to ask, nor friend. She thinks of Queen Sansa, who remains unmarried too; she has no child, but she had grown up with siblings, a mother. Lady Catelyn. Brienne might have asked Lady Catelyn, if she still lived. She had been devoted to her children till the end, and had freed her enemy to save her daughters.

Now, that enemy…

Brienne climbs out of bed, walks towards her door. She cracks it open and leaves word with her guard to send food for her. It is not his duty—he is there for her safety, not for her stomach—but she does not wish to see anyone. No enthusiastic cook nor eager maid. No Jaime wandering Evenfall Hall in the early morning hours.

The late morning hours see her heading for the nearest village on foot. It is a fairly short distance to travel for a routine visit with the smallfolk, and she will settle some minor disputes, check on this season’s harvest. Other lords or ladies might choose to have the smallfolk come to them—or not come to them at all—but Brienne prefers otherwise from time to time. In any case, it will do her good to step out of the castle, or so she thinks. She recalls how, just yesterday, Jaime had been able to tell that she was with child; soon she will not be able to hide her belly from strangers. The smallfolk will know, and some in this village already might. Then it will be all the villages on Tarth. The rest of the Stormlands. The entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.

She should have stayed in her castle. Maybe she will stay there for the next five moons.

On her way back, at the castle gates, Jaime is there. Is he to leave after all? No, she thinks not; he has no belongings with him. They should discuss when he will leave. She will prefer to know this time.

“Lady Brienne,” he greets her. He is in the same jerkin and breeches he was wearing last night, but he is without his wooden hand.

“Lord Jaime,” she responds, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks.

“I thought I might venture beyond the grounds of the keep today. If I might be permitted.” 

“Of course. You are my guest, not my prisoner.”

Jaime only smiles, a small one. It cuts her deep. She is about to move past him when he says: “Will you join me?”

She looks back at him. The last time she had joined him…

“Only for a walk,” he clarifies. This cuts her deep too. “If you are not too tired already.”

She declines, though she is not too tired. It is her hunger, or the babe’s, after a morning’s work; it is the unanswered correspondence on her desk; it is what happened the last time she had joined him. She takes her midday meal in her solar, finishes that one reply to the letter she took an hour to read yesterday morning. She reads five more letters, answers two. She feels steady, now: there are visits to villages, and replies to letters, and all her duties as Evenstar and Lady Paramount that have guided her waking hours in the last two years.

Then, it rains. It rains every few days on Tarth, the edges of the storms that frequent Shipbreaker Bay. It is usually light, sporadic, and if heavy it is for no more than an hour. This rain is something in between, nothing worrying or out of the ordinary, but enough to disrupt a walk in the meadows. How far has he wandered? Perhaps he had gone to the village too, and is taking shelter at the inn. Perhaps he has made it as far as the nearest mountain, and is hiding in a shallow cave. The rain is nothing worrying or out of the ordinary, but she rises from her desk and walks to her windows nonetheless. Jaime has endured much worse than a little rain, she tells herself as she looks out over her island. Still, he is a guest of Evenfall Hall. His well-being is the responsibility of the Evenstar.

Brienne opens the door of her solar, thinking she will leave word with a servant or guard. Then she thinks it might be best if she speaks to her steward herself. Lord Jaime had left Evenfall Hall with no guide, and it is his first time on the island; they must ensure that he returns from his walk safely. She heads down the stairs, through the hallways; the rain seems heavier, now, and there is no sign that it will stop. Her paces quicken, just slightly, and she turns a corner and—

“I think I am lost,” Jaime says. He is drenched, and only in his shirt and breeches; his leather jerkin is in his arms.

“Oh,” is all she can say.

“Will you be so kind as to direct me to my chambers? I am—” He tilts his head down at himself. “Hmm. The weather—it changes quickly. I shall need to dry my—”

“Yes.” She looks around, tries to get her bearings—she is, suddenly, lost too—and realises that while they are quite far from Jaime’s chambers, they are only steps from her own. Surely Jaime must know—he was here last night—but he is drenched, and he is her _guest_ — “I can—my quarters are—”

“Oh.” His eyes widen. “You do not have to—”

“I have—many shirts,” she says lamely.

He smiles; the cut is not so deep, this time. “I would expect so.”

Back in Winterfell, he would wear her clothes, sometimes. He had come North with so little, and she was only a couple of inches taller and broader than he. She had almost forgotten about this, this practice born of need, but it comes to mind as she hands him a clean tunic and breeches. 

“You can—change,” she offers. “Here.” Before he can respond, she retreats to her bedchamber to give him privacy. There had been no such thing when they had shared her room; at times, she had believed she could know everything there was to know about Jaime.

“Ready,” she hears him call, and she emerges. He has changed, yes, but the laces of his tunic are undone. “Oh,” he says, when he notices her gaze fall on his collar. “Do you mind?”

She does not know whether he means to ask if she minds them undone, or if she minds helping him with them; she only shakes her head, and stays rooted to the spot. Back in Winterfell, she would have tied his laces for him. That seems worse now than seeing a sliver of his bare chest.

He raises his stump, as if he has to remind her. “I think this allows me some laziness.”

She nods stiffly. His bare chest, his bare stump; he is nudging that stump at his neck now, scratching some itch. He seems so easy without his hand. It is an ease she does not recognise.

“I have grown to find the hand a burden,” Jaime explains, without her asking. “Even though the wood is not quite so heavy as the gold.”

“It was the lack of it that burdened you once.”

“Mm.” He gives his right arm a shake. “It still bothers me, sometimes. But less so.”

She nods. “I am glad.”

“You must be. You hated that hand.”

Hate. It is not the word she would have chosen. “I only wished you would let yourself go without it when you did not need it.”

“I remember.” He cradles his stump in the palm of his left hand. “How you held this. And told me not to be ashamed of it.”

“You would not listen,” Brienne says, though she should not. It is in the past; trivial. But she thinks of how he had smiled, nodded at her, as if he was listening; how he still wore the hand every moment he was outside of her room.

Jaime stares at her, with some intent she cannot quite parse. “I listened,” he says, insistently. “It was… It took me some time. But I listened.”

She does not know what to make of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne’s best pick-up line is “I have many shirts” and it works
> 
> I’m starting to think a bit deeper about what exactly I’m interested in exploring between them in this fic. I guess I’m trying to look beyond this black-and-white of “he hurt me, therefore I cannot let him in,” or “I hurt her, therefore I should not overstep,” and think about what happens when something is simultaneously open and closed; when the person with whom you have this painful history is also the person that understands you most.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the disappearance after posting a chapter every 1-2 days; real life got in the way. We'll see if I can get back to my previous posting frequency...

She should not take him to her bed this afternoon. She should not take him to her bed, but she does. It is, she thinks, a waste of the clean tunic and breeches she had just lent him. This is only a fleeting thought; it is difficult to think when Jaime’s head is between her thighs. It is difficult, too, with the rain echoing in her ears. She has never had rain in her ears and Jaime inside her at the same time.

“We had no windows,” he says, after their breaths have finally slowed. They are lying, naked, atop the coverlet, but it is Jaime’s words that make her feel bare. He is speaking of Winterfell in her bedchamber on Tarth; she would feel bare even if she was still fully clothed.

“Do windows matter?” she replies, looking out to the sea through the light mist of rain.

“They do, I think. In this light—”

He pauses, but she does not turn her head towards him. Not to ask for the rest of his answer; not when he chose to bring up Winterfell. There is nothing special about this light, in any case. The rain continues to fall, and the skies are grey. It is, however, still daytime, which means there is time for her to attend to her correspondence. Jaime had brought up Winterfell, which reminds her that she must leave. She attempts to sit up, but there is a touch on her wrist—his stump—and she finds that it freezes her in place.

“So soon?” he asks. He has no right.

“I have responsibilities,” she says, staring at the ceiling.

“Surely they can wait a while longer. We are not at war.”

She turns her head to him now, sharply. “That is irrelevant. I take my duties seriously.”

“So do I,” Jaime says, holding her gaze. “But an hour’s delay will not be the end of the world.”

She supposes it will not. The end of the world had already come, two years prior. Yet she cannot imagine staying here for an hour, with Jaime beside her. His gaze, still steady, pricks at her, and—

 _Oh._ She sees what he means about the light.

She turns her head back towards the ceiling.

“May I ask you something?” Jaime says, after a while. He has no right to ask her anything; still, she nods her consent. “How do you feel?” he continues.

“Feel?” she repeats. “About what?”

“The babe.”

 _The babe._ Instinctively, she brings her hand to her belly. “Well—” she begins, contemplating how best to describe it. “There is not so much discomfort. It is strange, sometimes. But tolerable.”

“That’s good.” She can hear some amusement in his voice; this pricks at her too. “But I meant—how do you _feel_? Inside?”

Jaime had told her he was happy, last night. Perhaps he expects her to say the same. She wonders if she would give him that satisfaction even if she did feel that way. But she is not sure how she feels, or how to describe it. She is not sure even now, two moons after she had first heard the news from the maester. She knows she did not wish to take moon tea, and she knows that this is not happiness. That is all.

The silence seems enough of an answer for Jaime, because he does not ask her again. Still, she tries her best to think of an appropriate response; one she can give him or someone else at a later date. Before she can decide on one, however, she is distracted by an odd sensation in her belly. It is gentle, brief, like nothing she has ever felt before. A flutter. She shifts her hand slightly—two, three more times—but the flutter does not return. Perhaps it had only been a trick of the mind.

“Was it—” Jaime says, and she shakes her head.

“I don’t know. I thought I felt something, but…”

“Hmm.” He reaches over to her, then seems to catch himself; his hand hovers over her belly for only a second before he retracts it.

“You can—” she offers. “If you want.”

She will not look him in the eye, but she will let him touch her belly. This child has a father, after all. Jaime reaches over again, and gingerly sets his palm down; slowly, he slides it across her flesh. She feels no flutter besides the tickle of his fingers stroking her skin, but soon she realises Jaime is not searching for any flutter either. It is as if he is— _exploring_ her. Her changing body. She remembers an evening like this, in Winterfell, when Jaime had let his hand wander over her. They had fallen asleep without so much as a kiss. 

“It is—” she finds herself saying, then stops.

“It is…?” he probes.

She sighs. “I am not accustomed to—to _softness_. My body is…”

This is a foolish thought; she will not allow it. She will not allow it in his presence. Of course her body is different, given that it has found a different purpose; it will no longer be the body of a warrior for the next few moons. She will simply have to come to terms with this fact. But Jaime is bringing his hand up, past her belly to her left breast, and he is cupping the flesh there. 

“There has always been softness,” he tells her. “If one knew where to look.”

She squirms away from his touch, turns her back to him. She wishes she had not reacted so conspicuously, but it is done, and she must come to terms with this fact too. Jaime knew where to look, and still does; it was enough to make her turn away from him. This gives him a chance, too, to rest his stump against her back, just as he is doing now.

“It is fine,” she hears him murmur. “If you are not happy.”

They are back to this again. Her fingers curl, gripping the sheets. “I will have the child,” she insists, to her windows.

“I know. And I am not—I know it does not matter what I think, or feel.”

It does not, even if he is the father. She is still prepared to raise the child without Jaime. Yet his words last night had haunted her all the same, slipped into her dreams. “You are happy,” she says, more to herself than to him. “You said—”

“Yes. I am. But I understand that it might be… challenging, for you. It was not expected.”

That is true. In fairness, nothing had ever been expected, with Jaime. Not at Harrenhal, or King’s Landing, or Winterfell. There is one thing, though, that Brienne might be able to anticipate this time. Perhaps on Tarth, where she has spent many an uneventful day, things will be different.

“When do you leave?” she says in a rush, before she loses her will to ask. They will not speak of marriage, or of how to raise the child, or of her feelings about the child. But she must know when he will leave.

She can feel Jaime shift onto his side to face her, and she forces herself to meet his eyes. She does so because she is Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the Evenstar of Tarth and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. She had looked in his eyes as he said the words to knight her, and she will look in his eyes as he says the words to leave her. She had already endured it once before, in a courtyard at the end of all things. But Jaime does more than just look at her, and say the words. He is raising his left hand to her face—she had held his face between her hands in that courtyard, two years prior—and she thinks now that she should have left for her solar when she had the chance. Somehow, though she had had him inside her twice in less than a day—though she had _wanted_ him inside her both of those times—his fingers touching her cheek is something unbearable.

So is his answer:

“When you wish me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted a soft chapter as a treat for them, and you, and me. But of course, there are so many things that still need to be resolved for them to move forward.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did think the last chapter was soft, but for those who didn't, you might change your mind after this chapter...

The next morning, Brienne travels to the second closest village to Evenfall Hall. And the village after that, and the village after that, and the village after that. She must visit every village on Tarth while her condition still allows. She must tour the rest of the Stormlands too, but she will begin with Tarth first. This is her duty as the Evenstar, as Lady Paramount. There is still rebuilding to be done.

It is three days before she returns to her castle. Maybe she will find Jaime gone. She had not apprised him of her plans before her departure; perhaps, without her having to say the words, he would have considered that some indication that he should leave.

He is still here. She is informed that he has spent most of the past three days in the training yard or in his quarters. _He tells us he wishes to be here when you return_ , her steward says. _We offered to bring him around the island, but he did not wish to leave the keep._

Jaime is her guest. Not her prisoner.

She finds him, not in the training yard or in his quarters, but at the top of one of the watchtowers. He is alone; there are other towers better positioned, and this one is often left unguarded. Still, it has a decent view of the valleys and the sea, and some section of the road she had travelled upon her return.

“Sapphires do not do the waters justice,” he says, glancing over his shoulder just as she arrives at the top of the stairs. 

“Do they not?” she replies, tentatively.

He shakes his head, and gestures towards the sea. “Why must we compare one thing to another? Tarth’s waters are blue in their own right.”

“What colour is the Sunset Sea?” she asks. “At Lannisport?”

“Not quite so pure as this,” he shrugs. “Perhaps you will see it for yourself one day.”

She casts her eyes towards the ground. It is as if she can see a map of the Seven Kingdoms upon the stone. Lannisport; Tarth. All of Westeros in between. 

“You have not left,” she says quietly.

“You did not tell me to.”

“I thought you might have—”

“If that is what you wish, I will.” She hears him take a step towards her; her eyes are still fixed upon the ground. “Is that what you wished?” he continues. “That you would return to find that I had left?”

She has no answer for him. Jaime lets out a soft sigh, but does not push her again. Instead, he asks, “How was your trip? Did the babe trouble you?”

“No,” she says truthfully, tilting her head back up. “Not any more than usual.”

There had been no flutters in the past three days. She does not think she would tell Jaime if there were. He nods; then there is silence. She cannot think of what else to say, and it seems that neither can he. He moves towards the stairs, or so she assumes; he pauses when he is right beside her.

“You must say it,” he tells her. “If you do not, I will take it that you do not wish me to leave.”

“You are Warden of the West,” she replies, straightening her back. “You cannot stay for long.”

“It is your intent to stay silent until I am forced by my duties to leave?”

She turns away from him.

“I appointed a castellan at Casterly Rock before I left,” he adds. “A cousin.”

It is a common practice, but still she frowns. “Castellans are not for—”

For what? What is it that Jaime is doing? She has no words to describe it, just as she has no answer to offer him. When does she wish him to leave? The last three days had not brought her any closer to an answer. She had not, in fact, thought much of her answer at all; only his. _When you wish me to. When you wish me to._ He had not given her a choice back in Winterfell—had not even planned to give her any notice—and he is giving her a choice now. Expecting _her_ to give _him_ the notice he had once denied her. She _resents_ this, she realises, for the first time since he’d said those words. She resents _everything_. She resents that he is slipping his fingers around her wrist, that he is gently tugging her towards him, that he is breathing her in as if he had _missed_ her in the past three days. She resents that this makes her feel _good_. “Tell me not to leave,” he whispers, and she resents this most of all. She had already told him not to leave two years ago. He had left in spite of it.

“I begged you once,” she snaps, wresting her wrist from his hand. “Do not ask me to beg you again.”

His eyes widen. “I am not asking you to beg,” he says. “I will stay if that is what you wish.”

“And I will not give you orders to obey. I am not your _sister_.”

If she could think clearly about the situation at hand, she would have told herself never to say those words. But she has never been able to think clearly about Jaime. Now, she has spoken his sister into existence; affirmed this phantom by denying herself. _I am not your sister_. Something strains in Jaime’s jaw, and his hand forms into a fist. So he feels protective of his sister, even now—dead, buried, but never gone. Yet his next words are not about Cersei.

“So you would have me do what I want, is that it?” he demands. “Without any care for your wishes?”

“My wishes have never stopped you before,” she spits back.

“And if I want to marry you? To be a father to our child? Can I drag you to the sept and make camp in your bedchamber?”

“You have no obligation—”

“It is not _obligation_!” There is such exasperation in his voice; exasperation he has no right to express. “I wish to be your husband—a father!”

“Would you wish it if I was not with child? That was one of the reasons you returned to King’s Landing, was it not?”

He reels back as if she had struck him. “I—I told you I wasn’t sure if… She might have lied—”

If he had not returned with any hope that the child existed—or was his—then that is worse. Worse than how she had chosen to think about that night in a courtyard, when she could think about it at all. For two years, at the back of her mind, Brienne had permitted herself to assume that the child counted for something. That it was, in part, the hope of being a father once more—even in death—that had compelled Jaime to leave. There was a strange comfort in this thought, but now it seems to her that it would not have mattered. He would have returned to his sister regardless.

“So you left only to—to—” but she finds she cannot say the words. And then there is a dull thump inside her, unmistakable, so much more than just a flutter. She catches her belly with her hand—there, another thump—and Jaime reaches out to her. “ _Don’t touch me_ ,” she hisses, and he lets his hand fall. This child has a father. She hates him as much as he must hate himself.

“I left to die with her,” Jaime murmurs; he sounds so far away. “It was what I thought I deserved.”

“I know,” she rasps, still holding her belly. “I know. You would die for her but you would not live for _me_.”

He dares to step towards her, to reach out again. “Brienne—”

She is crying. She knows this, but the tears on her cheeks feel so unfamiliar. She has not cried in two years, not since the end of all things. She is Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the Evenstar of Tarth and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. She does not cry. She will not allow it. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, the other still on her belly, the belly that is full because of the man standing before her. Then, she takes a deep breath. She is Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the Evenstar of Tarth and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. She does not cry.

“I am not worth your tears,” he says, and there is an apology in his tone that she wants to rip apart. “Not back then, or now.”

She walks past him, towards the stairs. She has the urge to walk straight onto the next ship out. If Jaime will not leave without her telling him to do so, then he can stand here and watch the road for her for the next decade. But first, she pauses; she will have the last word, this time.

“ _I_ decide what you are worth to me,” she says, without looking back at him. “Not _you_.”

Then, she leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, an argument!
> 
> Anyways...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the Evenfall Hall Couples Counselling Retreat, where things have to get worse before they can get better.

The baths at Evenfall Hall are nothing like the baths at Harrenhal. There are no great stone tubs lining a dim, low-ceilinged room; rather, there are the natural pools of a warm spring nestled within the grounds of the keep. While their forms have been altered to make bathing more comfortable—steps cut into the stone, seats within the water—the changes made were slight, and only where necessary. The pools remain open to the sky, and are kept private by way of walls thoughtfully built, and trees strategically planted. It is more garden than bathhouse, a place of peace within a fortress; it is used largely by guests of the Evenstar, and by the Evenstar herself when time and weather allows.

The baths here are nothing like Harrenhal. When Brienne has the chance to bathe here, she rarely thinks of that place, or that night, or his words. Yet when she sees Jaime approach, slow as he had done when he was the Kingslayer still, it is as if they have been transported back in time. Steam seems to rise around her, and him, though the water here is only mild. He had looked half a corpse all those years ago; she had thought him half a god as well. Now—healthy, clean, golden as always—Jaime is… 

“I told the guards that I was not to be disturbed,” she says, steady as she can.

“Did you?” He is already pulling his shirt over his head. “They did not stop me from entering, as you can well see.”

Had she not given any instruction? She remembers her intent; perhaps she had only thought the words. She could call for the guards now, she supposes, but she is so tired. She does not want to raise her voice again today, not where Jaime is concerned. Instead, she finds herself sinking deeper, and watches as the ends of her hair—always tucked so close to her scalp—float rebelliously on the surface of the water.

“Will you tell me that there are other pools?” he says, pushing down breeches and smallclothes in one swift movement.

“Will you listen?” she counters.

“I might.” He stands at the edge of her pool, the largest, and sets his clothes upon a nearby stone. “This time.”

She does not tell him there are other pools; she does not know why. Not an hour ago she had felt so much hate towards him, shed tears she had not wanted to shed. The hate lingers still—the hurt too—but she is so tired of both. She thought she had buried them at the end of all things. It was supposed to be as simple as that.

Jaime seems, genuinely, to be waiting for her to turn him away; it is only when she does not speak that he enters her pool. At least he has the decency to stay on the opposite side, as he had at Harrenhal. She observes him as he submerges himself beneath the water, and comes back up for air; the sunlight streams in through the trees to touch the droplets upon his skin. _Gold_ , she thinks, at the sight of this. _Glistening, glittering gold._

No. It is nothing like Harrenhal.

Soon, he finds a ledge beneath the water—she knows which one, can feel the ridges of the stone beneath her own flesh—and settles into it. Then, he meets her eyes.

“I was prepared to die,” he says. “When I went North.”

Brienne stills; watches; waits.

“I left my sister knowing I might never return,” he continues. “It was my intent to honour my oaths. To die on that battlefield.” He closes his eyes, and takes a breath. “To do so by your side.”

She wraps her arms around herself. “You did not die.”

“I did not.” He opens his eyes again. “And then we—”

She digs her nails into her skin.

“I don’t know if I ever told you. But I was happy.”

Her nails dig deeper; she thinks she might be drawing blood. Her skin is smarting. Her eyes. “You did not tell me,” she whispers.

“I should have. But I… I do not think I knew how to be. How to stay that way. Not when—” 

An abyss opens in this pause, an abyss that contains the end of all things. Then, Jaime sighs. 

“Brienne—I know what I did was unforgivable. And I will not—I do not expect your forgiveness, or deserve it. If you choose to raise this child without me, I will accept your decision, and return to Casterly Rock.”

She shuts her eyes, turns her head away.

“But you should know—you should know that what I did two years ago—I did because…” He sighs again. “I knew only how to give my life, back then. And not to—to _share_ it.”

Her hands emerge from the water, and she puts her face into them. Tears, again. She is so tired. There is the sound of splashing, then gentle waves lapping against her chest, then arms around her. She has not been held in a long time. Just _held_. She is so tired.

“You will—you will _leave_ ,” she struggles to say into his chest, her hands reaching behind him to grasp at his back, his shoulders.

“I _won’t_.” He kisses her neck. “Not this time. I swear.”

“Because she is dead. Only because—”

He kisses her on the lips. She tastes her tears on him, or perhaps they are his. “I cannot change that,” he murmurs into her ear. “I cannot change that she had to die so I could live. If that is something you cannot accept, then I will—”

It is she who kisses him this time. Not to accept that fact, but to forget it. In this kiss, Jaime had never left. They are together, and happy, just as she had imagined on some of those nights in Winterfell. She is with child; it is their second. He chose her. He chose a life with her.

 _Stay with me. Please._ Her voice is echoing in her head, and she does not know if it is from two years ago, or now.

“Marry me,” Jaime pleads, when they break apart. “Let me love you.”

“No,” she chokes out, then kisses him once more. Beneath the water, her legs have wound around his hips. Let him love her? The way he had let her love him two years ago, in a courtyard white with snow? _No_ , she had just said, and yet she is pushing herself into the length of him. Jaime’s grunts fill the air when they part again.

“You would let me fuck you—” his thumb strokes her cheek— “but you would not let me marry you?”

She has no reply. Not with words.

“Then so be it.”

She does not understand it, what they are doing to each other. What she is doing _to him_ ; letting him do to her. She would not let him love her. She would not marry him. Yet she wants him with her— _inside_ her—always. It is ludicrous; alarming. She had not had a man, _this man_ , in her bed but for a few weeks of her life. Two years ago, four moons ago, these past few days since he had first set foot on Tarth. This is the third time already since Jaime had arrived, and not an hour ago she was warning him not to touch her. Who was the one who had wound their legs around the other? Not him. Not Jaime.

 _I am not your sister_.

The words come without warning. Brienne would think on why, but she cannot, not now. She has Jaime with her, within her, around her. Here—in each breath, each thrust—she can believe that he had never left. They are together, and happy. She is with child; it is their second. He chose her. He chose a life with her.

Later, once he has slipped from her, he holds her in the water. Just holds her. It is nothing like how she had held him in a bath once before, all those years ago at Harrenhal. She wraps her own arms tighter around him, buries her face in his neck. She has not been held in a long time; she suspects the same could be said for Jaime. 

_I am not your sister._ The words come again. She would think on why, but she cannot, not now. There will be time for that later, for recollections, for regrets. She only wants to be held, now. She only wants to be held by Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might as well know I teared up multiple times writing this chapter. Again, not emotionally healthy people, but I'm trying to push them onto the path of actually _recognising_ that fact so they can start to make better decisions than 'angry training yard sex' and 'sad teary pool sex'.
> 
> Edit: I realise my mention of a ‘second’ child was a bit confusing so I’ll just add that there was no first child; I only meant it as a sort of daydream/alternate path in a world where Jaime didn’t leave.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say this chapter is meant to be a breather, fully expecting comments telling me it is not a breather at all.

They take a quiet dinner in her quarters, or try to; Brienne has no appetite to speak of. She spends most of the meal staring into the fire, just barely conscious of Jaime’s glances at her untouched plate.

“You must eat,” he insists, finally. “For the babe, if not for yourself.”

She sighs, and picks at her food with her fork. “I am not hungry.”

“Five mouthfuls, at least. For the babe.”

The advice grates on her, though it is wise; she might not so willingly take it if she were not so tired. Reluctantly, she takes her knife in hand, and begins to cut. It seems to take all the strength she has. Perhaps she should have asked for her meal to be served as Jaime’s had been, with the meat already sliced into manageable pieces. That was one of the first instructions she had issued upon Jaime’s arrival; she would not inconvenience him, as Roose Bolton had once.

Jaime is her guest, not her prisoner.

Seven mouthfuls later—Jaime had urged another two—she sets her fork and knife back down, and looks back into the flames. Then, she feels Jaime’s hand covering hers; his touch burns her skin, but she does not move.

“Something is… weighing on you,” he says. “Besides—”

Besides. Besides all of it. Yes, there is something else. _I am not your sister._ She still cannot fathom why those words had surfaced in her mind; why those words had surfaced in her mind as she took Jaime inside her. So she does not mention it, not yet. Instead, she asks him:

“What changed?”

“What… changed?”

She turns her head towards him. The firelight dances on the greys in his beard, turning them something that is not quite gold. “You said—you only knew how to give your life, _back then._ As if… things are different, now.”

He nods, and draws his stump across the line of his jaw. “When I returned to Casterly Rock. It was without…” He pauses. “I was alone. No father, no sister, no brother. We’ve had two years of peace, since then. Two years of—of _healing_ , I suppose, and all the work required for that purpose. I have had to think of stability, and unity, rather than war, and sacrifice.” He runs his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. “It changes a man. Gives him room to consider other paths.”

“She died so you could live,” Brienne murmurs, eyes following his thumb.

“Her, and so many others.” Jaime exhales, and his thumb stills. “Tyrion had arranged for us to go to Essos. If we had both survived.”

His touch seems to scorch her now; she slips her hand from his. “Would you have gone?”

“If I could have saved her life, perhaps. I did not expect to succeed, and I did not.”

Brienne looks back towards the fire. Jaime, and Cersei, in Essos. The Lannister twins—the Queen and her brother—on another continent entirely. She cannot imagine it, the anonymity they would have had. Something in this strikes her cold, even as her hand still burns where Jaime had touched it. “You would not have had to be her brother,” she says. “In Essos.”

“No. I would not.” Another exhale. “I… I had proposed it before, long ago. That we might run away. But she—”

_You would let me fuck you, but you would not let me marry you?_

“I am not your sister,” Brienne says out loud.

His chair creaks. “Yes,” comes his stiff reply. “I know.”

“I thought of those words. In the pool. When we were…”

“Oh.” Jaime clears his throat. “Why—why then?”

“I am still trying to understand it.” Brienne stands from her chair, and walks towards the hearth. “It was not—I do not think that you think of her when—”

“Good,” he interjects. “I do not.”

She takes her bottom lip between her teeth. There were things Jaime had told her back in Winterfell, about his relationship with his sister. Not in detail, but things that Brienne could read into if she chose. She had not wanted to do so then, but now… 

“Am I—” She grips the mantel. “Am I doing to you what she did to you?”

“What?”

“Having you in—in my bed, but not—”

Wood drags across stone as Jaime leaps out of his seat. “You are not—that is not— _do not compare yourself to her_. She did what she did because she wanted to be Queen. You only want—”

She looks over her shoulder, and meets Jaime’s eyes. What does she want? Neither of them can say. She wants—she wants—she wants Jaime to never have left. But he did. It sounds, oddly, quite simple in her mind: he left to die with his sister; his sister had died, but he did not. She cannot change that his sister had to die so he could live. She cannot change that he made that choice to die at all, when he could have had a life with her. Her hand goes to her belly. This child—it could have been their second.

Just then, there is a knock at the door—a servant come to clear their plates. They watch as the girl slips Jaime’s empty plate below Brienne’s, which is still more than half full.

“Perhaps you might bring some bread and cheese for your lady,” Jaime tells the girl. “So she may eat when she is hungry later.”

“You give orders to my servants, now?” Brienne says, more sharply than she had intended. She rarely speaks sharply, these days, and almost never does with her household. The girl stares at her with wide eyes, then at Jaime, then back to her.

“It was only a suggestion,” Jaime says, bowing his head just slightly. “You hardly ate.”

“My—my lady,” the girl stammers, clearly disconcerted by this exchange. “Should I—”

“Yes.” Brienne pinches the space between her brows. “Alright. Bread and cheese, thank you.”

When they are alone again, Jaime apologises. She does not want to rip it apart, not this apology, but still it grates on her as his advice had done before. “I was merely concerned,” he explains. “I should not have—”

“You should not. You are my guest, not my…” 

She swallows. There is no word. Or there is, but she cannot think it, let alone speak. What is Jaime to her? What is he not? What does she want him to be, and what does she not? She would let him fuck her, but she would not let him marry her. _I have no intention of trapping you_ , he had said, about marriage. _You would not have to do anything you do not wish to do._ Now, she is the one who is—

“I will return to my chambers, then.” Jaime is bowing his head again; she does not know how long she has been silent. “And leave my host to the rest of her evening.”

“No.” Who said that? Her?

Jaime takes a step forward. “No?” he echoes.

She shakes her head. “Forget what I said. Good night.”

He frowns. “‘No’, or ‘good night’? Which am I to take as your true intent?”

“I… I don’t—”

“I would stay, if you would have me.”

“I know.” She turns away. “You have said.”

“I mean—I would stay, _tonight_. One night.” She hears him take another step. “It is not the rest of your life. You may choose to dismiss me tomorrow.”

“And you would hang on my word, as you had with—”

“Do not think of her,” he says, gruffly. “I am simply… I am offering another way. One day at a time. One night. There will always be my quarters, or the next ship, if that is what you decide.”

“You would make me ask and ask again?” The thought of it—of _stay with me, please_ , over and over—

Jaime sighs. “It was only a suggestion,” he says, for the second time this evening. “Another path. My answer will always be yes, but you may reassure yourself of that each day.”

“If you s—” She cannot say the word, not even to the fire. “If you… _remain_. Tonight. I do not think we should—”

“Ah.” He walks slowly past her, towards the windows. “I will share your bed, but not…”

It makes no sense. She should have all of him, or nothing at all. He should not be in her bed but not inside her, should not be the father of her child but not her husband. He should not be here one night only to be told to leave the next. It makes no sense—how had it made sense to his sister, for all those years? She does not want to think of Cersei, but she does. She is so tired, and she cannot keep his sister from her mind.

The girl comes back with bread and cheese, then takes her leave. Yet Brienne has not given him an answer either way. Jaime is still facing the windows, though there is nothing to see in the inky darkness. No telling where the land ends and the waves begin.

“What troubles you?” he asks eventually. “Tell me to stay, and it is just one night. Tell me to leave, and there is still tomorrow.” 

“You know it is not so simple. One night is not just one night.”

“It is not,” he concedes. “We had one night, in King’s Landing. Now there will be a child.” He turns back to her. “I will go, if you cannot decide.”

She nods, and he begins to walk towards the door; he stops when he is a pace or two from where she stands. 

“Do not think you are doing what she did,” he says. “It is not the same. You are Ser Brienne of Tarth. Trust you will do what is just.”

She does not know why, but it is enough to make her grab his wrist. It is enough to make her ask him to stay, with a kiss and not this word she cannot speak. She does not know if this is what is just, or even what is brave; it does not make her feel brave, or strong, and she has always sought solace in those things. But it is only for one night, as Jaime said. She can allow herself to be weak for just one night, and there is still tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the long author's note.
> 
> So, I received a couple of comments on my last two chapters that I made the decision to delete, but thought there were still some points raised in it that were worth clarifying to readers of this story – especially since I’m taking a more restrained approach with the language in this one, plus writing the characters in a way that is deliberately layered and sometimes contradictory, as happens when you’re dealing with trauma.
> 
> – This story is not about love conquering all indiscriminately, or about Brienne forgiving Jaime simply because external circumstances would make that option the easier one. This story is about how one person hurt the other terribly, and how that one person can still be someone that loves and understands the other (and vice versa). Finding their way back to each other takes work, communication, healing, clarity, disentanglement etc., together and individually, all of which are still in progress. Part of that progress involves both of them making mistakes with each other—and feeling all those messy feelings and painful loneliness and yes, sexual connection (as a poor substitute for the emotional intimacy they cannot yet fully achieve)—and then reflecting on their behaviour later.
> 
> – That being said, I’m taking the interpretation in this fic that Jaime did not leave because he ‘chose Cersei’, but because he thought ‘dying with Cersei’ was the fate he deserved, as opposed to a life with Brienne. I think there’s a subtle difference there that allows some space for forgiveness to grow, in that yes, he did do this terrible thing, but he also did so because he was not mentally well and had a distorted sense of self-worth. This is why I made the decision to have him keep his distance from Brienne for two years, during which he has grown and healed while doing his duty as Warden of the West. Perhaps he would have kept his distance forever, if not for one drunken night becoming the catalyst for exploring if there was any possibility of being with Brienne again. 
> 
> – I suppose, ultimately, I have never felt anger towards S8 Jaime. Heartbroken, yes, and anger at the way his narrative was managed, but I have always read his actions as that of a broken and traumatised man who cannot help but return to patterns of abuse that he’s been subjected to his whole life. I guess this influences the way that I approach him as a character, and Brienne as well, in that she also fundamentally reads the situation in the same way. She feels a spectrum of emotions towards Jaime (well, when she doesn’t suppress them), of which anger and hatred are two, but those two do not always dominate. Maybe this might read as being too ‘forgiving’, but to me this ability to understand him and his motivations/compulsions (which does not necessarily lead to easy forgiveness) is part of what makes Brienne tick.
> 
> Anyway, this is all just to spell out the complexities that make this story interesting and ‘writeable’ for me, which may be things that make it _un_ readable for some. I thought it was worth framing it clearly so you could make a decision about whether this story is something you wish to commit to as I move forward. To be honest, I still have no clue where this is going beyond the next chapter, but the basic principles outlined above have been guiding this narrative since the start.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to leave me thoughtful and encouraging comments. There were some especially that got me thinking about all the dimensions and difficulties of forgiveness and healing. It was also heartening to know that this story has been helping some people process their anger. I hope the rest of it (however long it ends up being) will do justice to all your contemplations!

Each morning, in the time between sleeping and waking, they are in Winterfell. Jaime’s arm winds around her from behind, his stump resting protectively on her belly. His breaths, slow and steady, warm her neck. One of his feet has slipped between her calves during the night, and his toes wriggle against her skin. Sometimes, this makes one corner of her lips curl upwards.

Each morning, when she opens her eyes, they are at Evenfall Hall.

The beginning of a smile is also its end.

 _Tell me to stay, and it is just one night._ One night turns into three. On the fourth night, feeling too fatigued for company and strong enough to say so, she requests that Jaime return to his quarters for the evening. She awakes a few hours later, in a cold sweat, one hand clenching the sheets in the empty space beside her. _Gone_ , her mind whispers to her, and she wraps herself in her robe as she had done on a cold night two years before. She is in Winterfell, and Jaime is not in her bed. He is in a courtyard, the ground white with snow; he is readying his horse, and telling her that—

She is not in a courtyard in Winterfell. She is standing before the entrance to the guest quarters at Evenfall Hall. She is weak, pathetic; it is as weak and pathetic as asking him to share her bed three nights in a row. Jaime is still here—there is nowhere he could have gone without her knowledge—and she needs no assurance of this fact. She will go to bed alone, as she has done for almost all of her life. Jaime is not in a courtyard. Jaime will not mount a horse and ride away.

As she turns to leave, the door opens.

He does not ask why she has come. Only closes the door behind him, and follows her to her bed.

In the morning, in the time between sleeping and waking, they are in Winterfell.

In the morning, when she opens her eyes, they are at Evenfall Hall.

Though they wake in the same bed, in the same room, it is difficult to speak to Jaime until after her midday meal. It is the fact that they are at Evenfall Hall—the fact that he is here because he had left her in Winterfell two years before—and it is something she cannot face until she has busied herself for a few hours. She is still attempting to tour the Stormlands over the next few weeks, using as sensible a route as she can manage so that the babe is not tested overmuch, and the planning and discussion occupy her time well enough after breakfast.

“They will know the moment they see you,” Jaime tells her one morning, as he watches her dress. “Your belly grows.”

“Then they know,” she says, shortly. It is difficult to speak to Jaime in the mornings.

There is no comment on bastardy, even as she steels herself for one. “You will have the maester travel with you, yes?” he asks instead.

“Of course.”

“Do you desire that I remain here in the meantime?”

She has not given it much thought. Or she had, and could come up with no answer, so she did not think about it again. “You may return to the Westerlands when I depart,” she says now. “I do not know if I will be delayed at any point.”

“And after?”

She has no reply. No answer. Always, there is no answer, not beyond each night. Each night after the fourth night, she asks him to stay without using that word. Each night, he agrees. Each morning, in the time between sleeping and waking, they are in Winterfell. Each morning, when she opens her eyes, they are at Evenfall Hall. Some afternoons, at least, they leave the castle: he has accompanied her, at a distance, to some errand at the harbour or a nearby village; other times, they simply walk. But their conversation is sparse, and she speaks only as someone who knows the island like the back of her hand. Here is a stream, which leads to a lake. Here is a waterfall beyond this grove. I used to come here as a child. Yes, I was alone. I was always alone.

It is another ten days before a letter arrives from King’s Landing.

 _Two_ letters. The handwriting is the same, but one is addressed to her, and the other to Jaime. To Jaime, at Evenfall Hall. They sit side-by-side on her desk in her solar, but she waits till after her midday meal to inform Jaime of their arrival. It is difficult to speak to Jaime in the mornings.

“A letter for me?” he asks her, when they are both in her solar; she is seated at her desk while he stands on the other side. “And it is not from Casterly Rock?”

“It is from King’s Landing, as I said.” She hears the annoyance in her own voice; sometimes it is difficult to speak to Jaime in the afternoons too. “The writing—it must be your brother.”

“Tyrion? But—”

“He knows you are here?”

Jaime stares down at the letter, which she has just handed to him. “I suppose he must by now.”

“You did not tell him yourself?”

He shakes his head, but does not elaborate. She had assumed he had stopped by the capital on the way to Tarth, or even written to his brother after he had arrived, but he seems to have done neither. If her brother were still alive, she supposes she might have kept Jaime from him too. Then again, if her brother were still alive…

She would not be Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. She would not be Evenstar. She might not even be a knight, or have served Renly, or the Starks. She would not have met Jaime at all. People die—sisters, brothers—and it changes the course of history forever.

They open their respective letters, and read them. The paper in her hand feels heavy as stone; the words seem to pierce her anew no matter how many times she goes over them. _Lady Brienne_ , it says. _I hope this letter finds you in good health. Two rumours have come to my attention_ —

“Would you share what he wrote?” Jaime asks. “Unless you wish to keep it in confidence.”

She sighs, and readjusts her grip on the paper. “Lady Brienne,” she begins. “I hope this letter finds you in good health. Two rumours have come to my attention. First, that my brother would have been a guest of Evenfall Hall for three weeks by the time this letter reaches you, if he has not already departed. Second, that you are with child. You understand what conclusions I might draw. On behalf of the King, and since this matter concerns both Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the West, I am writing to seek confirmation of the truth. Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“On behalf of the King,” Jaime scoffs. “Does the King not see and know everything? Tyrion could _seek confirmation of the truth_ that way.”

“How does he know?” The babe kicks at her belly, as if to ask as well. “About—”

“Traders returned to the mainland, perhaps. Gossip.”

“So soon?”

He shrugs. “Peace makes for idle and inquisitive minds. And my brother has his network of eyes and ears, I expect.”

Brienne nods, though she is perturbed that news has travelled so far so soon. “And yours? What does it say?”

He holds his letter up. “Brother,” he declares. “What in the seven fucking hells are you doing on Tarth?”

She almost drops her letter. “Truly?”

Jaime turns the paper towards her, and she can see some of those words in the first two lines. “What is some bluntness between brothers?” He flips the paper back, and continues: “Have you not inflicted enough damage? Would you not stay at Casterly Rock for the rest of your miserable life as you promised you would do?”

“Is… is that what you promised?”

He lifts his eyes to her for a brief moment, then returns them to the letter. She does not know what that means, but she cannot find it in herself to ask again. “Please write to tell me the rumours are not true,” Jaime finishes. “You are aware of what I must advise if they are.”

“Marriage,” she whispers.

“Most likely.” Jaime folds the paper back up. “What do you wish to do?”

She is tired of that question. So tired. She does not know what she wishes to do, is that not enough of an answer? I do not know. I do not know. I wish Jaime never left. I do not know.

“We cannot ignore it,” she murmurs.

“No. It would not be wise to do so.” Jaime paces slowly to his left, then back again. “You may reject his advice. There are other ways. Maege Mormont had Lyanna, and Oberyn Martell—”

“That is what you would have me do?”

He stops pacing. “It is not my place to _have you do_ anything,” he says to the ground. “You know what I wish. It has not changed.”

She nods, and leans back into her chair. “I had hoped to leave for the mainland next week.”

“I see.”

“I could travel to King’s Landing. It is not so much further. There are other matters I might discuss with the council besides this—regarding debts, and—”

He looks up at her. “You would speak with my brother alone? And the King?”

She averts her eyes. “I must tour the Stormlands first, as planned. If you wish to be in King’s Landing when I arrive—”

“I do.” He approaches her desk. “And you will have a… a proposal for my brother by then?”

“I do not know,” she says. It is the only answer she has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, if Tyrion hadn't written, they'd probably keep doing this for the next twenty years. Three kids, still refusing to get married, and Brienne is all, "Hmm, sometimes he has to go back west and I have this weird feeling inside me when he isn't here? But I don't know what that is? What? Miss—I don't MISS him," (nervous laughter) "he's just the father of my three children who happens to sleep in my bed some of the nights when he's at my castle. Okay, like, every night, but that's just a _minor_ detail."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A SOFT CHAPTER. I SWEAR.

The date of their departure from Evenfall Hall draws near. It is decided that Jaime will leave with Brienne on her ship, so he writes ahead to the mainland for his men to expect him at Storm’s End. He had made his initial sea journey to Tarth alone, paying a trading ship handsomely for safe passage; Brienne’s letter had been vague, and he had not wanted to draw attention with Lannister guards, or a Lannister sail.

“Have you considered,” Brienne asks him one night in bed, “that that ship might have been the source of at least some of the rumours?”

“I paid for their discretion as well,” he replies, sleepily.

“I am sure that you did.”

There is a few seconds’ silence from Jaime, then a brusque, “Good night.”

The date of their departure from Evenfall Hall draws near. Jaime will not return to the Westerlands—it is too far to travel if he must be in King’s Landing when Brienne arrives—but he will ride ahead to the capital, and await her there. In the meantime, he writes a short letter to his brother, to say that the King can expect a full explanation once the Lady Paramount concludes her duties in the Stormlands.

“It will vex him, to be sure,” Jaime says, as he seals the letter. “The delay. I will not hear the end of it.”

Brienne nods wordlessly, and tries not to wonder if Jaime will be vexed as well. There have been times, in the past weeks, when she thinks she can feel something in him. Not anger. Not even irritation. Some anxiousness, perhaps, or a preparation for disappointment. Or—or… 

She cannot tell. She cannot give him an answer either. Still, he sleeps in her bed each night. Still, when she opens her eyes in the morning, they are at Evenfall Hall. 

But they will not be at Evenfall Hall for much longer. It will take her a moon, possibly two, to accomplish all she needs in the Stormlands; during this time, he will not sleep in her bed at all. She must travel south to Stonehelm, and Mistwood if necessary, then back north and through Bronzegate on the way to King’s Landing. She is not certain that there will be an answer for Jaime at the conclusion of her tour.

At least she will not travel as far inland as Nightsong. There are the practical concerns—the distance, her health, the fact that the King and his Hand await clarification—but she cannot lie and say those are the only reasons. Nightsong is the seat of House Caron; she does not, in truth, much enjoy being reminded of House Caron. Had the younger son of Lord Caron lived, they would have been wed within a year of Brienne’s first flowering. Her whole life would have been different, maybe more so than if Galladon had not passed. This child—it could have been her second with Jaime. But it also could have been her fifth with someone quite unlike him. She had only met her betrothed once, when she was seven and he ten. A shy boy, with a mole above his lip. He would have been quite unlike Jaime, if he had lived.

People die, and it changes the course of history forever.

The date of their departure from Evenfall Hall draws near. So does the date of their parting, though she tries not to think of it. When she fails, she tells herself that it is she who is leaving this time. 

She tries not to think of how that may not matter.

The date of their departure from Evenfall Hall arrives. Soon it will be the date of their parting. But for now, they can board her vessel together.

Brienne had, very briefly, contemplated the propriety of sharing her cabin with Jaime. But if rumours have already reached the mainland, then having Jaime in a separate cabin will not make much difference. Besides, she would have had to accommodate him in a cabin much less comfortable than her own; she feels an impropriety in that too. It is less than two days' journey to Storm’s End, in any case; it seems inconsequential to have Jaime in her bed for one more night. He would not have to suffer so cramped a cabin this way.

The journey is smooth, to most of the ship’s passengers. They encounter a storm, but it is minor and over quickly; the rest of the day is peaceful, with winds strong but not overwhelmingly so. Yet each hour only seems to bring more unpleasantness for Brienne. She thinks, at first, that it is the fit of her new tunic over her belly, though she had had the outfit tailored just the week before. Then, she thinks it is the waves. They are not so fierce, but sometimes her stomach is still unsteady. As the sun dips closer towards the horizon, however, she realises that it is neither of those things. It is her feet—her ankles—her calves that are the source of her discomfort. She tries her best to endure it—a knight should not be tortured by such paltry aches—but by the time she climbs into bed for the night, she is grimacing enough for Jaime to notice.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, about to climb in after her.

“Nothing.” She presses her thumbs into her calves. “I can manage.”

“This is not nothing. Come.” He moves to sit at the foot of the bed, then adjusts himself into the corner with his back against the wall. Before she can even think to protest, he has lifted both of her feet into his lap.

“Jaime,” is all she can say. Out of shock, or to scold, she cannot be sure.

“You will not object to this, surely.” He lifts up his left hand, frowns at it; then his stump, and his frown deepens. “Tell me which feels better. This—” he begins to work the fingers of his left hand into one calf— “Or this.” He grips that calf so he can knead his stump into her muscles, and—

“Oh!” she exclaims. It feels—

“Interesting.” He looks up at her. “A use for this damned thing.”

“I—” she sputters. “Well, both feel—but this is—”

“I will use both, then. Is it just your calves, or—”

“Everything,” she groans, before she can catch herself. Jaime only frowns again, so she says, “Below—below the knees.”

There is silence at first while Jaime works, broken only by a hiss of pain or a gasp of relief. Eventually, he asks: “Has it been so bad these past few days?”

“Only today,” she sighs. “It is—I am not—”

“Yes?” he urges.

“It is fine. It is better now.”

“Is it?”

“… Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Alright,” she admits. “I—I was about to say that I am not used to such aches. I should not be—it is _senseless_.”

His fingers pause upon the arch of her foot. “Senseless?”

“I have been bruised. Beaten. Cut, and stabbed. I have had my bones broken, time and again. But this—this is—”

She stops; Jaime is smiling as he pushes his stump into her sole. “What is so amusing?” she asks, indignantly.

“Only that it sounds as if you would prefer those injuries.”

In some ways, she would. Those pains are absolute, with clear cause and effect. She can inflict the same upon the men or creatures responsible, then bandage her wounds and be done with it. But she cannot say the same of throbbing calves and swollen ankles. The maester had warned that she might experience these discomforts, and she had not paid him much heed. She is a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and she would not be tortured by such paltry aches. What man or creature could she inflict these pains upon tonight? The father of her child?

The father of her child, who is rubbing her feet now?

“You know,” Jaime says, his eyes fixed on her toes. “I… could do this for you every night. If I were to come with you.”

“Oh—” She had not expected him to offer, or had not expected him to wait this long to do so. “So could a servant,” she replies, tentatively.

“I could… protect you from bandits. I have defended you against worse.” She narrows her eyes at him, and he hastily adds, “Only if you happen to be… indisposed.”

“A guard could do the same. And none of mine are missing a hand.”

“You wound me,” he smiles again. “I am a better swordsman than all your guards, I’d wager. Even with my left.”

He is right, but she will not tell him so. “It would not be proper for you to come,” she says instead.

“You are already with child.” He looks towards her belly, where her hand is resting upon its curve. “There are already rumours.”

“And this would confirm them. If you toured the Stormlands as my—my…”

“ … Companion?” he suggests.

She looks away. “What would my bannermen think, with you beside me?”

“They would think that they should not ever consider rebellion. You will have Lannister armies at your back.”

“I do not rule with fear.”

“Not fear.” He tugs at her toes. “Only… a gentle reminder.”

She huffs. “And your men who will meet you at Storm’s End? They expect to travel to the capital.”

“They can come with us. It will be a better use of their time than following me around King’s Landing for the next moon or two.”

“Your castellan might not think _this_ a better use of your time,” she counters, lifting her chin towards her feet.

Jaime laughs. “My castellan will be grateful for all the time he will spend in office.”

“Why?”

“Well, he might have inherited my titles, if not for the ba—” He swallows the word, and turns his attention to her ankles. “It is nothing. He—he will not mind.”

It was not nothing. Not in the least. It was an assumption, for however short a time, that the babe would be Jaime’s heir as well. Would that even be possible, she wonders, for their child to inherit her titles and his? A mother from the eastern coast, and a father from the west. But she has no answer still—not about marriage—so it is nothing, as Jaime said. It does not matter that Jaime has been in her bed each night, or if she will allow him to accompany her on her travels. As it stands, the child would be neither her heir, nor his. It is nothing.

They speak little after that, and it is more like it had been at Evenfall Hall. Before Jaime’s slip of the tongue, they had exchanged more words this evening than in the past few nights combined. She feels the weight of this in the quiet, and as Jaime takes his place by her side. It is too heavy. She cannot breathe. She cannot give him any answer. As Jaime shifts against her back, she thinks that she wants nothing more than to be alone; as he slides one arm under hers, she thinks there is nothing worse in the world than solitude.

Then, she feels his lips press to her neck. Then, there is his stump inching her shift up her thigh. Then, he is asking for permission, as he has done most nights in the past weeks. She cannot give him any answer, but permission—

The waves of the Straits of Tarth are not so fierce tonight. There is a rhythm to them, beneath this vessel. A lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really going to let Brienne go off to the Stormlands on her own and then time jump to King's Landing... then Jaime was all 'let me rub your feet for the next two months'...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evenfall Hall Couples Counselling Retreat has since concluded. Now we are knee deep in 'Tour of the Stormlands: Living in Sin'.

There are many surprises awaiting Brienne at Storm’s End, though only one is welcome. As she disembarks her ship, she decides that she is ready to ask Jaime to accompany her on her travels. He had offered just once, which had somehow made it easier to agree after a few hours’ deliberation. Still, it is a surprise; she had not truly been certain until she had her feet on solid ground. 

The second surprise is the warmth of her reception at the keep. The minor branch of House Baratheon that had taken up residence at Storm’s End—relegated to bannermen rather than inheriting the titles of Robert, Stannis, or Renly—had always treated her with a cold civility. She had not minded, or blamed them before; she does not need their affection, only their allegiance. Yet this afternoon they are smiling widely, opening their arms and deepening their bows. _There will be a great feast this evening,_ they reveal. _To celebrate your arrival, Lady Brienne. And Lord Jaime’s of course. We received word that he would be travelling here with you._

Of course. Lord Jaime. Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. Brother to the Hand of the King. Former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Former brother to the Queen, who had been married to King Robert of their House, who was mother to King Joffrey and then King Tommen. Rumours of those kings’ true parentage—and their mother’s ambitions, and fall—have been so easily forgotten in peacetime. Or perhaps this newfound deference comes from something much simpler than that. Perhaps it is simply that Lord Jaime is a man.

But Brienne has no time to consider this theory. They have arrived late in the day, and now there is a feast for which they must ready themselves. This feast brings the third, and most unwelcome surprise of all: among the guests is one Ser Ronnet Connington.

Ser Ronnet is the Knight of Griffin’s Roost now, the head of House Connington. Many years ago, when he was but a young knight, he had held a rose between his fingers and told her it was all she would ever have from him. Not so many years ago, she had beaten him soundly at Bitterbridge. This time he held a sword and not a rose, and every blow she had dealt him had been sweeter than a kiss. That was their last encounter, until she had been pronounced his liege lady. Their meetings since have been few, and always uneasy. His disdain for her, his resentment, thinly veiled by his obeisance… She had hoped to avoid Griffin’s Roost, maybe more so than she had wanted to avoid Nightsong. But that hope was in vain. Griffin’s Roost has come to her.

“I had not imagined that I would be given such pride of place,” Jaime whispers to her at the feast. They are seated on a raised platform in the dining hall, in full view of all of the guests of Storm’s End. “I had wondered if your bannermen might not look so fondly upon our… association.”

“You are Warden of the West,” she says absently; Ser Ronnet is approaching. “Among other things.”

“Other things?” he replies. “Is that what we are—”

Ser Ronnet arrives at their table just then. “Lady Brienne,” he greets her. “You look…” His eyes travel towards her belly, and something in this makes her grip the arm of her chair a little tighter. “Well,” he finishes, then leaves her no time to respond before he turns to Jaime, and bows low. “Lord Jaime. I am Ser Ronnet, of House Connington. I am Knight of Griffin’s Roost. You might not remember me, but I had fought in your army, in the Riverlands.”

“Had you?” Jaime drawls. “No, I do not remember. And you survived?”

Brienne bites her lip as Ser Ronnet’s eyes narrow. “Yes. Well—I am here now.”

“Yes,” Jaime says, “I can see that.”

Ser Ronnet stumbles back, but not without another cautious look at Brienne. Perhaps he is wondering if she had told Jaime about their history, though she had not.

“Do not be rude to my bannermen,” she murmurs to Jaime before the next one can approach.

“He did not seem a pleasant man.”

“That does not matter. I—”

But they are interrupted by a servant come to replenish Jaime’s wine, and the conversation is forgotten. It is for the better, Brienne thinks. She does not wish to speak more on Ser Ronnet than is necessary. 

The rest of the feast is uneventful. Yet Jaime seems to fidget more and more as the night wears on. She thinks, at first, that it is merely impatience, but then there is a soft hiss at her side.

“Is something wrong?” she asks under her breath.

“My hand,” he says, holding his wooden one just below the edge of the table. “It is bothering me, for some reason. I had hoped to last through the feast, but—”

“You wish to remove it?”

“Only to adjust it. Let the skin breathe. But not…” He looks towards their guests. “I would prefer to have some privacy. Would you mind if I—”

She shakes her head, and Jaime steals away from the table with an apology to their hosts. She watches him at first, but is distracted by a question of, _is Lord Jaime well?_ And she must deflect their hosts’ concern, _yes, he will only be a moment, there is no need to—_

There is a hush, and she looks up. Jaime is standing next to where Ser Ronnet is seated, and the guests around them are staring down at their plates. She can see Jaime open his mouth to speak—oh, his arm is raised slightly, as if… But she only hears, vaguely, something that sounds like: _I would thank you to be gracious to your liege lady_.

Then, he storms out of the room.

She is half out of her chair before she can stop herself, and only just remembers to make her excuses before she leaves the table. She passes Ser Ronnet on her way out; everyone avoids her eyes, including him. Outside, she spies Jaime slipping into an alcove, and she follows. He is already shrugging off his doublet when she enters.

“What happened back there?” she asks, taking the doublet from him.

“Nothing,” he mutters, pulling back his right sleeve. “Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

She folds the doublet over one arm. “ _You_ should not concern yourself with Red Ronnet.”

Jaime stills. “Why not?”

“He is only—he holds a grudge against me. For defeating him at Bitterbridge.” 

“Just that? A tourney, from so long ago?”

“Yes,” she lies. “What did he say? That made you so angry?”

He keeps his eyes on his wooden hand, the straps and coverings beneath. “You do not need to hear it.”

“That may be so. But I could just as well march in there and demand the answer. Do not make me.”

“Fine.” By now, Jaime’s stump is exposed, and he circles his fingers around his wrist. “I overheard him say—that he hopes, for the babe’s sake, that it will take after its father, and not its mother.”

It stings, but only slightly. She remembers the cruelty of the rose, and this feels quite far removed from that. “Is that all?”

“Is that… _all_?” Jaime echoes. His grip tightens on his wrist.

She takes his stump into her hands, loosening his fingers, and pushes her thumbs into his flesh. “Only that you seemed—you seemed to wish to raise your hand against him. That comment is not so…”

“Is it not?”

“I have heard worse. From you, I might add.”

Jaime is quiet while she massages his stump with her fingers. “Alright,” he says finally. “He called you—he said you were a _sow in silk_. A—a _freak_. He should not—you are his _liege lady_ , and I would have raised my hand against him if—”

Brienne sighs. They are snide remarks, but she has devoted more than enough frustration to Ser Ronnet in her lifetime. “Leave it,” she tells Jaime. “He is not worth your rage.”

“It is worth my rage if he speaks ill of you. Whether you have heard worse or not.”

“Truly, Ser Ronnet is—”

“You may not think it worth addressing, but I do. You are the mother of my child.”

She retracts her hands. Suddenly the watchtower floods back to her. _I decide what you are worth to me._ She does not wish to think of the watchtower, or the baths at Evenfall Hall, or the courtyard at Winterfell. “Can you—” she steps back. “You can manage. Yes? I will return to the—”

“Yes.” Jaime frowns as he takes his doublet from her. “Do not worry.”

She is turning to step out of the alcove when Jaime catches her by the wrist. “Brienne. Wait.”

“Yes?” she asks, without looking back at him.

“I—I should like the babe to have your eyes. To take after you in that, at least. It would—your eyes are—”

Before he can finish, Brienne pulls her wrist from his grip; she almost misses a step as she leaves. She wants nothing more now than to head back to the feast, where Red Ronnet’s remarks still hang in the air. She has borne such insults all her life, beaten the men who spoke such words into the dust. But Jaime’s words? The words she had not stayed long enough to hear? One hand presses against her belly as she walks to the dining hall. What is she to do with words like his?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed Surprise Ronnet, but sorry if you were expecting a slap :( Jaime is too mature now :(


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clothes and politics are not my strong suit, and I had to deal tangentially with both in this chapter. So just... overlook anything that doesn't make sense on those fronts.

When they arrived at Storm’s End earlier that day, Brienne had not been shown to her usual accommodations. Those were still available, their hosts explained, should she wish to use them; but they had hoped to offer her the option of quarters twice as large, with two bedchambers separated by a large common room. They were uncertain, they said, of her arrangements with Lord Jaime, and had wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. 

Brienne had been unsettled by their presumptuousness—no change had been requested by her party, and they had not sent word that Jaime would spend the night at all. Jaime, on the other hand, had quietly pointed out the convenience of shared quarters. Upon stepping aside to discuss the situation, he reminded her that there would not be prying eyes to observe whether she chose to spend each night with him or apart. So she accepted this arrangement. She wished to think the best of their hosts’ efforts, no matter if they did this for Jaime’s sake or hers.

It is only after the feast, when they are alone in their quarters, that Brienne begins to consider another interpretation. She considers that everything might be some great jape at their expense. Their shared accommodations, the scrutiny they had been inadvertently subjected to at the feast, even the fact that Ser Ronnet had been invited at all—perhaps these had all been intended to sharpen their discomfort. She had wanted to think the best of their hosts, but then Jaime says:

“The lady of Storm’s End told me something quite interesting.”

There is the slightest hint of acidity in his tone. She had noticed Jaime’s sullenness on their way back from the feast, but had thought it nothing more than lingering displeasure at Ser Ronnet, or at how she had left things at the alcove.

“What was it?” she asks, settling into a cushioned chair.

“She said to pay Ser Ronnet no mind. For he is only bitter that he is not wed to the Lady Paramount himself.”

Brienne knows not whether to laugh or cry at his words. She had not wanted to discuss Ser Ronnet’s rose with Jaime—it was certainly no business of the lady of Storm’s End—but she does not believe Ser Ronnet thinks her a lost opportunity. When their betrothal had been arranged, he was but a landed knight; still is. House Connington had lost their lordship in the aftermath of Robert’s Rebellion, and all they had was their castle. If Lord Selwyn had passed before his grandchildren were grown, Ser Ronnet might have been Evenstar. Still, he had rejected her.

“Care to enlighten me?” Jaime continues. There is a slur in his words, to accompany that acidity she had heard before.

“You are well in your cups.”

“Only slightly.” He sits in a chair opposite her. “I am not so drunk that I cannot hear this tale, if you would deign to tell me.”

“There is not much to tell.” She avoids Jaime’s eyes. “My father had tried to arrange a match, when I was still quite young. Ser Ronnet came to Tarth, but we did not marry.”

“Why not?”

“He laid eyes on me. It was enough for him to make his decision.”

Jaime startles her by sitting up in his chair. She looks up to see that his left fist is clenched, and his nostrils flaring. But he says nothing.

“I have forgotten it,” she says. _A sow in silk. A freak._ “I forgot it once I beat him at Bitterbridge.”

She had, on occasion, dreamt of the rose since Bitterbridge. But Jaime does not need to know that.

“Has he forgotten it?” asks Jaime, standing from his seat. “Red Ronnet?”

“Perhaps not. But I would not be Lady Paramount if I had wed him back then, so he has nothing to regret.”

Jaime takes three paces away from her, then turns back. “I suppose I should be grateful. I take it we would not have met if your betrothal had not been broken.”

“No. We would not have met. But I dressed myself in man’s mail and learned to fight, despite my father’s best efforts to see me wed.”

It is only when she speaks the words that she realises her mistake. Now Jaime will—

“You speak as if Ser Ronnet was not the only one.”

She sighs. There is no use in hiding it from him now, not if he might hear some inaccurate tale from one of her more loose-lipped bannermen. “I—I was betrothed three times. Ser Ronnet was the second.”

“ _Three_ —”

“It is not so interesting. The first, the younger son of Lord Bryen Caron, was carried off by the same chill that took his parents and sisters. He was only twelve at the time.”

“And the third?”

“The third,” she winces. “Humfrey Wagstaff was his name. He was castellan for House Grandison.”

“Grandison,” Jaime echoes. “I took the slot of Ser Harlan Grandison, when he passed. To serve as a member of the Kingsguard.” He does not speak the King’s name. “Ser Harlan was an old man by then.”

“So was Ser Humfrey,” she says. “He was five-and-sixty.”

“What? And you?”

“Sixteen.”

She hears Jaime suck in a breath. “And you rejected him?” he says. “On account of his age?”

“I was in no place to do so. My father required heirs.”

“But you did not wed.”

“No. I was already no stranger to a sword when I met Ser Humfrey, and this did not please him. _I will not have my lady wife cavorting about in man's mail_ , he told me. _On this you shall obey me, lest I be forced to chastise you._ I still remember it so clearly.” She leans back in her chair, and finds she is back in the training yard at Evenfall Hall. “Somehow I found the courage to speak against him. I told him I would accept chastisement only from a man who could outfight me. I did not expect him to agree, but he wanted to teach me a woman’s proper place.”

“I expect you taught him his.”

“I did. Using a mace, with no spikes. I broke his collarbone and two ribs.”

“Seven hells.” There is no acidity in Jaime’s voice now, only a sort of awe. She meets his eyes, and yes, there is awe in them; she recalls the night he had knighted her, how he had stared at her when she had risen—

She has to look away. “My father did not insist again after that.”

“A broken collarbone,” muses Jaime. “I am glad that is not my fate.”

Brienne snaps her head up. “Why would that be so? We have only drawn swords against each other.”

“I do not speak of—” and then it is as if he comes back to himself, though she is not sure where he had gone in the first place. “F-forget what I said. I will—good night.”

Then, swaying a little on his feet, he walks towards his bedchamber. 

_His_. Not hers.

She had assumed he would—

What had disturbed Jaime so?

Brienne rises from her chair then, and walks slowly to her own bedchamber on the opposite side of the common room. How strange. Is Jaime still upset with her, for keeping her broken betrothals to herself? But he had not seemed upset. Still, he had bid her good night so abruptly. _I am glad that is not my fate_ , he had said. As if comparing himself to Humfrey Wagstaff. Why would he compare himself to—

_So, when should we do it?_

_Do what?_

_Why, marry of course. There is a sept, yes?_

She has not agreed. But she has had him in her bed almost every night for the past weeks. She will let him rub her feet. But she will not stay to hear what he thinks about her eyes. He is the father of her child. But he had left her, crying, _mourning_ , in a courtyard at Winterfell. Back then, he had thought himself more fit for death than a life with her. Now, he is in the bedchamber on the other side of this common room, in quarters that they are sharing for the next few nights. There is peace in the Seven Kingdoms, enough for petty games to be played by her bannermen. His sister is dead. He is alive.

She could have broken Jaime’s collarbone, or worse. But she did not.

Tonight, she does not change into her shift. The air feels warm, sticky, and there is more fabric in that shift than will feel comfortable. Instead, she dons a long, thin shirt—or not so long, now that it has to accommodate her belly as well—and leaves the laces undone. She does not look at her bed. It does not have Jaime in it.

She approaches the entrance to his bedchamber. The door is not closed, so she leans her body against the frame. Jaime’s chest is bare; he must feel warm too. He is readying himself for bed— _his_ bed—but she has the absurd thought that she is watching a lion lick his wounds.

“You will make me ask tonight?” she says quietly. 

He looks towards her, and his eyes widen as they fall to her legs. She resists the urge to tug the shirt down. The air feels warm, sticky. There is a sheen to Jaime’s skin—

“I—” He clears his throat. “I was not sure if you would want me.”

She takes a step forward, then another. “I have not come to your bed before. Not even—”

“No.” He swallows. “You… you have not.”

She has reached the bed by now, and she sinks her fingertips into the mattress. “I am sure it is the same. As mine. In the other room.”

“Yes. Well. I would think so.”

She perches herself on the edge of the bed. She is not so careful as she does so; the hem of her shirt slips higher. She has left her smallclothes in the other room.

“Ser Ronnet,” he says, which is not what she expected Jaime to say. 

“… Ser Ronnet?”

“You said he made his decision as soon as he laid eyes on you.”

She nods. “I was of a height with him, though he had six years on me. And I was dressed in silk brocade. It did not suit me.”

Jaime reaches out to her then, puts a finger beneath her chin. Just a finger, but she leans into it. “If he saw you as I did, so many years later. In armour, and wielding Oathkeeper.”

“He would have made the same decision. More adamantly, perhaps.”

“Mm. I suspect so.” His fingers travel to her neck. “Would you let me see you as I did in Harrenhal?”

She knits her brow. “The pink gown?”

“No,” he chuckles softly. “In the baths.”

It is not just the air that is warm, but her cheeks too. “You have seen me as such in Evenfall Hall. And in King’s Landing. And—and in—in Winterfell.”

“I have. And now we are at Storm’s End. You once wished you might be lady of Storm’s End, did you not?”

“Jaime.” She looks to her feet. “You insist on mentioning—”

“Allow me this victory, my lady. However small.”

 _Victory?_ An odd choice of word. But she has little time to think on this choice. Jaime has dipped his hand into her shirt, and is skimming his fingers over one breast. Her breasts are fuller now, her nipples tender; she gasps, and grips his arm. Between her thighs, there is a familiar sensation. Beneath them, the bed is soft, the silk cool against her skin. She will enjoy this bed, she thinks, even if these quarters had been offered as a jape. Enjoyment seems much better than taking offence. She imagines she will have Jaime in both beds, and in the common room too, maybe in that cushioned chair. He is already lifting the shirt over her head, so he can see her as he did in Harrenhal. Their hosts had wanted them to use these quarters well, had they not? She is their liege lady. It is only her right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne one month ago: "I have many shirts"  
> Brienne now: "I only have the one shirt"
> 
> She's really upping her game


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than all the others because it was meant to be the first half of one longer chapter. But I have the next one written already, so that should be up tomorrow! In the meantime, think of this as an... 'inn'-terlude. *rimshot*

Whether out of sincere acceptance, or some deference to the Warden of the West, or even an intent to embarrass their Lady Paramount, Storm’s End had been accommodating of their unconventional arrangement. So too are the inns they rely upon in their travels south. Or rather, it is that the smallfolk care little for the decorum that nobility might be expected to observe—not that all nobles do so—if they care about the affairs of the nobles at all. It helps, of course, that the innkeeps are compensated well and promptly; that the Lady Paramount and her party do not cause more inconvenience than is necessary. But it is not just the coin, or the lack of trouble. Most of them simply pay no mind.

In any case, the worst the smallfolk can do is gawk, or tut, or gossip. And if there is hearsay to add to the rumours that have already reached the capital, then there is hearsay. The Lady Paramount has been called Brienne the Beauty, the Maid of Tarth; the Warden of the West has been called Kingslayer, oathbreaker, and worse. That was before the end of all things. There is little that could be worse than the end of all things, and they have already lived through that.

Brienne’s belly swells. She is no longer the Maid of Tarth. Jaime stays by her side. There is no oath for him to break.

At the inns, just as at Evenfall Hall and Storm’s End before, Brienne shares her room with Jaime. It is the sensible thing: some inns are only modest in size, and they would not deprive someone else of a room by taking up two. Besides, she has grown accustomed to his presence in her bed. Dangerous as it is—it was what they had done in Winterfell—she wants him by her side in the night. He will rub her feet, and her back; fetch her broth or bread if she craves it. Sometimes, she works the knots out of his shoulders in return. All this soothes her and the babe to sleep, she reasons. Peaceful sleep is always welcome.

In the mornings, in the time between sleeping and waking, she thinks less and less of Winterfell.

Still, sharing a room with Jaime brings various discomforts. Some, they do not mind—they were soldiers both, and can bear too-small beds and too-thin walls—but there is one in particular that unsettles Brienne. On occasion, she is referred to as Jaime’s lady wife, and he as her lord husband. It might have been easier to let the smallfolk believe this is so, to persist in this mistaken assumption. But it is not the truth, and Brienne feels compelled to correct them. She does so the first three times; in return, she receives an apology, a confused nod, and a shrug. The fourth time, however:

“You’re not wed?”

Brienne can only stare at the innkeep, and shake her head. There is something about this woman’s forthrightness that renders her mute.

“Huh. Well, he warms your bed at night, don’t he? And he got the babe on you, I’d say—the way he fusses over you.” 

“Well—that is—”

“That seems mighty close to a husband to me. Though I hope yours is not half as useless as mine.”

Then the innkeep gestures to the man snoring loudly in a corner of the common room, and walks away.

Brienne does not look at Jaime, seated beside her.

Afterwards, she does not correct this assumption again. The risk of some similar comment is too great, and she decides she can suffer the inaccuracy. Jaime, at least, does not bring up the issue even in the privacy of their room; not when the innkeep utters those words, and not when Brienne stops correcting people after. Not even before, to tell her it might be simpler not to correct them at all. She knows what his wish is, and she is quite certain it has not changed. There is no point in speaking of it until she can give him her answer.

He shares her bed. He is the father of her child. Marriage is more than both of those things, as simple as the innkeep had made it sound. It could even be neither of those things. For a lord and a lady, it is alliances, and lineages. It is making peace, or establishing power. It is the Evenstar, so desperate for heirs, that he would choose a man of five-and-sixty so determined to subdue his only daughter. But surely it is not Humfrey Wagstaff that weighs on her, or Red Ronnet, or the shy Caron boy with a mole over his lip. They were from a different life. A different Brienne.

What do the marriage vows say? One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. An oath. Jaime had sworn her no oath in Winterfell, and yet—

He shares her bed. He is the father of her child. They will not discuss marriage between them.

They have not, in fact, discussed the subject of marriage at all in many days. Not since their first night at Storm’s End, since they spoke of her broken betrothals, since Jaime compared himself to Humfrey Wagstaff. _I am glad that is not my fate._ She had considered those words the next morning, been distracted by a series of meetings and inspections, then considered his words some more. Jaime had not caused her offence, the way Humfrey Wagstaff had; even his first assumption of marriage had not come with threats or conditions. His offence had been in hurting her, abandoning her, telling her he was not worth the pain he had caused. But he had come to her two years later—she had asked, and allowed it—then stayed. He had not caused her any hurt since then. What should she do to him besides breaking his collarbone? Go to his bed in a shirt and nothing else, it seems. And Jaime thought this some small victory over _Renly_. It was all so strange and confusing.

So she stopped thinking of it.

He shares her bed. He is the father of her child. They will not discuss marriage.

This serves them well enough until they arrive at Stonehelm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just slowly inching Brienne along the path to self-awareness. Apparently an innkeep pointing at the two of them and shouting YOU'RE MARRIED is not enough for her.
> 
> (It isn't, it shouldn't be, they still have to work through a lot of crap, etc etc etc)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to A Wiki of Ice and Fire, Clifford Swann is listed as Lord of Stonehelm in the appendix of _A Dance with Dragons_ , despite the fact that there were two other guys that could have been head of House Swann. “It is unknown if this is a mistake or whether Clifford has succeeded Gulian over Gulian's eldest son Donnel.”
> 
> All this is to say, I just took GRRM's ‘give-no-fucks’ energy and channelled it into this chapter.

Lord Clifford Swann has never struck Brienne as a difficult man. He is principled, reserved, but not difficult. He had unexpectedly inherited his title late in life—both sons of his predecessor had died in King’s Landing two years before—and this led him to exercise great caution in every decision. Admittedly, this caution could manifest in some inflexibility, but this has always seemed harmless to her. There is certainly nothing harmful in what he had arranged for her visit. Separate quarters for her and Jaime, both with excellent views of the river Slayne. Separate quarters at either end of Stonehelm.

Brienne glances at Jaime when she realises this. To be offered shared quarters was one thing, but to request them… 

“I appreciate your generosity, Lord Clifford,” Jaime says, approaching the man. “I am sure my quarters will be more than satisfactory. But I hope to be close to the Lady Paramount. She is with child, as you can well see.”

“We have no other quarters fit for a man of your standing,” Lord Clifford replies. 

“Surely that cannot be—” Jaime begins, before he is silenced by a look from Brienne. “I have been at war, and slept on cots and bedrolls. I do not need lavish rooms or river views.”

There appears to be a knot in Lord Clifford’s brow, though his voice remains steady, and his tone polite. “Do not concern yourself, Lord Jaime. Lady Brienne has her maester, and ours too. I will see to it that she is well attended by my household.”

“And we thank you for it.” Jaime pauses, as if to choose his next words delicately. “It is only—Lady Brienne and I have an… an understanding—”

“My lord,” Lord Clifford interrupts, his lips folding into a thin line now. “Am I wrong in thinking that there has been no announcement of marriage?”

Jaime grimaces as he meets Brienne’s eyes. But she only gives a light shake of her head, and chooses not to speak against Lord Clifford. She knows, if she pressures him to do so, Lord Clifford might have yielded to their wishes after some resistance. Still, she does not wish to challenge him. House Swann is an old noble house, more powerful now than what is left of House Baratheon, and they had gained their wealth through control of the river Slayne. Crucially, the Slayne opens out into the Sea of Dorne; Brienne would need House Swann on her side should relations with the Dornish sour, or to prevent relations from souring at all. No, she does not wish to challenge him. She and Jaime will have separate quarters, at either end of Stonehelm. It is only for a few nights.

“At least you will not be alone,” Jaime mutters, once Lord Clifford is out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

He looks to her belly. “You have the babe.”

“Oh.”

She had never thought of it that way.

That night, her bed feels cold. The covers are warm enough—the air too—but she is not. She imagines if she peeks over the side of the bed, she will see the ground covered with snow, just as it had been at the end of all things. But it is two years past the end of all things. Dangerous as it is, she has let herself grow accustomed to Jaime’s presence in her bed, just as she had in Winterfell before. Now, he is not here. The last time she had gone to sleep alone, she had woken partway through the night to go in search of him. But that was in her own castle; she is not at Evenfall Hall tonight. She cannot so easily wander the halls of Stonehelm in search of Jaime. 

All those weeks ago, she had thought herself pathetic. What is she now?

Just then, the babe kicks once, twice.

“I know,” Brienne says, reaching for her belly. “I—”

She falls silent. Her other hand moves to cover her mouth. It is the first time she has spoken to the babe out loud. She is not alone in this bed; she has the babe. Can it hear what she says? Can it understand? She feels, all of a sudden, the need to call it by a name it does not yet have.

The babe kicks again.

“It is strange,” she murmurs hesitantly, “not to have your father with us. Is it not?”

It is strange, too, to be speaking like this. It is so strange and confusing, as strange and confusing as everything else has been, that she must leave this bed immediately. It is cold, in any case, and she wishes to be closer to the fire. So she walks over to a chair by the hearth, settles into it, and stares down at her belly. Should she speak to the babe again?

“Do—do you think he is thinking of us?”

This question makes her feel strange again—and worse, _foolish_. Ever since their first parting, back in—well, at Harrenhal—she had taught herself not to expect Jaime to think of her. She fails, of course, and feels foolish for failing; she cannot escape that feeling even now. He is the father of her child. He does not think of her. He wishes to marry her. He does not think of her. He had left her in a courtyard. She should not think of him. He has been sharing her bed every night—

She should return to her bed once she has warmed up. She should sleep. But then she hears something—a faint… _scratching_ sound. It is coming from one corner of the room. Is it rats in the walls? Or her mind playing tricks? Oh—was that a knock, from the bookshelves? It must be her imagination—no, there it is again. A ghost? She is not one to think of ghosts, yet the shadow that killed Renly comes to mind. A shadow with Stannis’s face.

She rises, and grabs Oathkeeper from where it rests against the wall. Her sword would be no use against a spirit, but still she unsheathes it. Carefully, she grips its hilt with both hands and approaches the bookshelves. She had wondered about them when she was first shown to her quarters—why there was a need for them at all—which only makes her more wary now. The knocking has stopped, but one shelf appears to be—to be _shifting_ , and she raises her sword and—

“Seven—what are you—put the damned sword down!”

“ _Jaime?_ How did you—”

He has just slipped out from _behind the bookshelves_.

“Tunnels in the walls,” he explains, brushing some dust from his hair and sleeves. “I had a very… _illuminating_ conversation with a servant. Then spent what must have been the better part of an hour getting lost in there.”

She wants to hack at him with her sword, still raised. “You—you scared me half to death!”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth?” he smirks. “Scared? Are you not pleased to see me?”

She turns away from him, to sheathe Oathkeeper and return it to its place. “Lord Clifford will not be pleased.”

“Lord Clifford is not _here_. At least, I should hope not.”

“Of course not.” She looks at him sharply. “It is only me and the babe.”

Jaime’s expression changes at her words, but she knows not what it means. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “You and the babe.”

“… Is there something wrong with what I said?”

“Only that you… Never mind.” He comes closer to her, and she steps back instinctively, only to realise she is already up against the wall. “Are you not pleased to see me?” he repeats, much softer this time. “I… I mis—”

She brings her lips to his, and her arms around his neck. She knows what he intends to say, and she does not want to hear these words. Then there is a clang, and she breaks from him to see that Oathkeeper has fallen to the floor. Somehow, this makes her laugh. It is brief, but she laughs.

“I have not heard that in an age,” Jaime says, bending down to stand the sword upright. When he turns to her again, he is beaming at her. “Your laugh. It is—”

“Don’t.” She casts her eyes to the side, feels the cold stone against her back. “Don’t tell me.” 

“Why not?” He reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “You will not let me tell you about your laugh? Or your eyes?”

Her eyes. In the alcove. That was so many days ago—weeks. “No. I do not need to hear it.”

“Is it so difficult for you to hear?”

“That is—it is not what I said. I do not need it.”

He wraps his arms around her waist, presses a kiss to her cheek. It is not what she needs, or even wants. She wants his lips on hers, silenced; she does not need to hear what he says. But Jaime is moving his lips to her ear now, and she wants to protest, but she cannot. 

_Your eyes are—_

_Your laugh is—_

“Those words do not suit me,” she whispers back.

“They are the truth.”

“They are but words. Words are wind.” 

_They cannot hurt you. Let them wash over you._

“Perhaps.” Jaime kisses her cheek again, and she thinks for a moment that he will not let this go. He will bring his lips to her ear again, tell her all the things she does not need to hear. But he only says: “Will you bring me to your bed, Lady Brienne? Before we are discovered?”

She hears herself laugh again. She hears Jaime’s words along with it. _Your laugh is—_

When she returns to her bed, with Jaime, it does not feel so cold. She thinks the babe would be pleased with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was a secret passage too wacky for this story? Probably, and yet I went for it. I like the idea that they're doing everything out of order and this is their honeymoon/giddy-teenage-first-love kind of phase. Also, jencat and I were cracking ourselves up thinking about Brienne looking at those bookshelves in her bedroom and going "BOOK?! BRIENNE LIKE SWORD, NOT BOOK!" But Brienne also like Jaime, so it worked out for her in the end.
> 
> (And to ring in 2021, Brienne is acknowledging her baby's existence!!!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! But I'm super busy this month so I can't promise I'll be updating as frequently as before. Maybe a chapter a week, if I can carve out enough time.
> 
> By the way, I took Mistwood/Lady Mary Mertyns from one of the TWOW excerpts, but there wasn't much in that, so I put my own spin on it.

When Brienne’s party departs Stonehelm—Lord Clifford none the wiser about Jaime’s nightly visits—it is with two extra men. There have been reports of bandits in the rainwood these past months, but the forest cannot be avoided if the Lady Paramount is to visit House Mertyns at Mistwood. So they accept the offer of escorts more familiar with the terrain, at least until they arrive at their next destination.

Thankfully, they encounter no bandits on the way, only the tiresome humidity. Brienne had been through parts of the rainwood in the past, but this journey seems much more onerous than before. The water in the air, breathed in, weighs on her lungs; it should not compare to a suit of armour, yet she thinks she might prefer the latter. She would not fit into her armour now, the armour Jaime had made for her. Still, Oathkeeper is at her hip, even if it is useless against this forest. Her thumb runs over the lion’s head, again and again as they weave their way through the trees. She knows all of the pommel’s ridges by heart, and it calms her to know they are exactly where they were when she touched them last.

It is three days’ journey to Mistwood, and one night they must take shelter in one of the rainwood’s many caves. With their escorts’ guidance, they find a cave that is deep and large enough for their party. There are worse places to spend the night, though it will still be a struggle for Brienne to rise from the hard ground in the morn. She decides, instead, to sleep sitting up against the cave wall, but she cannot seem to find a comfortable position, not even with two bedrolls beneath her and a balled-up cloak at her back. In the end, it is Jaime who leans against the cave wall, and Brienne who leans against him while sitting between his legs.

“Are you sure you will be alright?” she asks, as she settles into him. The babe feels calm, at least, despite her exertions.

“I am fine,” Jaime says into her ear, and wraps his arm around her belly. “Do not worry.”

The next day, it is he who struggles to rise from the ground. He does not complain out loud, but she can tell from how he moves that he is suffering. The stiffness in his back, his shoulders; his swallowed grunts… 

“You are not fine,” she says, her hands kneading into his waist as the rest of their party readies to leave. 

“It’ll be— _ah_ —fine by tonight. _Ah_ —or tomorrow.”

“You think you still have the body of a man two decades younger.”

“Would you have found such a man to— _ah_ —to hold you in the night?”

She jabs him in the spine with one knuckle, and he yelps in pain. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds.

He turns to face her, his stump pressing into the arch of his lower back. “I am an old man, and a cripple besides. But if my body can still be of use, I can bear such pains.”

Something about this bothers her, but she cannot quite explain why. She is no stranger to thinking of her body as a weapon, a tool; she is no stranger to sacrifice. But for Jaime to speak about himself in this way, _for her sake_ —it bothers her, and does so quietly for the rest of their journey. She does not want this sacrifice, this _penance_. She wants… 

“There is Mistwood, my lady.”

She looks up. It is her first visit to the castle, and she can hardly make the castle out through the trees. Mistwood seems to her to grow out of the rainwood itself: there is moss and vine on every stone; roots growing from each crevice; small flowers, even, blooming amidst the green. The trees surrounding the keep seem to be simultaneously without and within the castle walls, and it is at these walls that they are welcomed warmly by the dowager Lady of Mistwood. 

Brienne has only met Lady Mary twice before, and had exchanged mere courtesies with her both times. Still, she had formed the impression that the old woman was predisposed to find amusement in most things. Not maliciously, but in the sense that this is simply how Lady Mary had come to view the world in all the years she had spent in it. Brienne does not feel threatened by the amusement with which Lady Mary greets her, tinged as it is by a sort of admiration. It reminds her of another old woman who had once called her _marvelous. Absolutely singular._

She glances at Jaime out of the corner of her eye. There is some recognition in his face, though it is his first meeting with Lady Mary; and there is remorse, too. Brienne knows what he did to that old woman who had once called her _marvelous_. She knows too that he regrets having to do it at all.

“Why the long face, Lord Jaime?” Lady Mary quips. “Is Mistwood not to your liking? Or its Lady?”

Jaime’s brow softens. “On the contrary, Lady Mary. I am sure you will treat the Lady Paramount very well during her stay.”

“And that is how you will measure us, is it?” she replies, with a twinkle in her eye. “By how we treat Lady Brienne? I suppose we can treat you quite poorly, then.”

“But of course,” he smiles wryly. “Throw me in your darkest dungeon, if it means Lady Brienne will have your softest bed.”

It is a comment made in good humour, but Brienne thinks again of the cave. _If my body can still be of use,_ he had said, _I can bear such pains._ She is soon distracted, however, by Lady Mary’s next words:

“You jest, Lord Jaime. If Lady Brienne will have our softest bed, surely you will as well. That is what we have heard, even this deep in the rainwood.”

Then, Lady Mary winks at her. Before Brienne has a chance to respond, or even blush, the dowager sweeps an arm towards her keep, and invites them in.

Brienne meets first with Lady Mary in her solar, alone. It was the old woman’s request, and she had seen no reason to deny it. She had expected to speak on official matters—the bandits, for example—and they do so for a time. But she senses that Lady Mary means to assess her liege lady. It is her right; loyalty must be earned, and respect too. Brienne has never thought herself entitled to either.

“I take it that Lord Jaime will not be joining us for any of our engagements,” Lady Mary says at one point.

“No,” Brienne answers, unable to hold back a sigh alongside it. She had been asked some variant of this question at Storm’s End, and again at Stonehelm, and at every minor keep they had stopped at in between. Always her answer is no, and nothing more. Jaime is with her only as her—her _companion_ , and if she wishes for his counsel on any matter, then she will ask him in private.

Lady Mary looks at her, amused as always. “You understand why I must ask, Lady Brienne. He is Warden of the West after all.”

“Yes, of course. And the Warden of the West has no influence in the Stormlands.”

“Truly? Does he not influence you, my lady?”

“Not on official matters,” Brienne replies, before she realises the implication of her answer. But Lady Mary only smiles.

“That is good to hear.” She leans back in her chair. “In all my years we have not had a _Lady_ Paramount. I am quite enjoying it.”

“Is it so different from before?”

“It is,” the dowager says, without elaborating. “Or perhaps it is simply you, Lady Brienne. I find you much more to my taste than House Baratheon.”

“Oh.” Brienne had once considered Renly Baratheon worthy to be her king, and now… “Well—I am only doing my duty—”

“A thank you would suffice.”

Brienne allows herself a small smile. “I thank you, Lady Mary. I am glad you have found it… enjoyable.”

The other woman laughs, short and hearty. Then, she says, “You know—I saw Lord Jaime once before. Many years ago.”

“You did?”

“It was at a wedding. Or was it a tourney? Sometimes you cannot tell one from the other.”

Brienne cannot imagine that to ever be true, but she nods nonetheless. 

“The Lion of Lannister. And Kingslayer also, by then. So young. He was with his family, I believe—or perhaps with King Robert, and…” Lady Mary trails off, and tilts her head. “This lion is greying now. But more handsome, I think.”

“I would not know,” Brienne replies levelly. “I have not known him so long.”

“Well, you shall have to take my word for it.” Lady Mary leans in a little closer. “If you do not mind humouring an old lady, why is it that you are not wed?”

Brienne is half startled by the question—it is the first time anyone has dared ask her _why_ —yet somehow she finds herself unsurprised by it. “That is…” She smoothes her skirts over her belly. “It is between myself and Lord Jaime.”

“He does not wish it?”

“No—it is not…” Brienne winces. She had not intended to reveal so much.

“I see. And Lord Jaime is content with this arrangement?”

“He is… only trying to do what is right.”

Lady Mary’s eyes fall to Brienne’s belly. “And what is right is not to marry you?”

Brienne has no reply.

“Well.” Lady Mary takes a sip from her goblet. “It seems he listens to you, at least. That is a point in his favour. Still, a man with many blemishes on his past.”

“He has done well as Warden of the West,” is all Brienne says. She cannot decide how else to defend him, or if she even should.

“Whether it makes up for the rest of it—” Lady Mary’s smile returns. “But we will not speak of it. He is handsome, highborn, listens to you. A good match, one might say. Even without the babe.”

Brienne gives her a stiff nod. It is not that she does not know these things—

“Few of us are so fortunate to be loved by our hus—our _prospective_ husbands.” Lady Mary interweaves her fingers, and looks at Brienne sagely. “So I am curious, even if you will not satisfy my curiosity.”

It takes a moment for the dowager’s words to settle in her mind. No—it is not _settling_. Something moves within her; attempts to fit into place; cannot seem to.

“If you will excuse me, Lady Mary.” Brienne puts a hand to her belly, though the babe has not fussed. “I must take my leave.”

“Of course,” Lady Mary replies, rising from her seat. “It has been a while since I have been with child, but a woman does not forget—you must rest. I will see you on the morrow, Lady Brienne.”

As Brienne makes her way back to her chambers, their conversation does not leave her. _Few of us are so fortunate to be loved by our husbands_. Loved? By Jaime? Years ago—moons—weeks, even—she might have denied such a statement, or failed to believe it wholeheartedly. As recently as Stonehelm, she had reminded herself—out of habit—that he does not think of her when they are apart. But he had thought of her. He had. He had wandered the tunnels in the walls for her—it was no big sacrifice, but it had pleased her to see him each night—and he had whispered sweet words in her ear whenever he emerged.

The last Jaime had spoken of love—in the baths at Evenfall Hall—he had asked her to let him love her. She had said no, and yet… 

Lady Mary’s words trouble her. They trouble her because the thought _does not_. She is loved by Jaime. She believes it, desires it, does not fear it. She does not feel ashamed that she enjoys this love, though he had left her in a courtyard at the end of all things. Before today, she had worried that perhaps this was the obstacle to her answer—some lack she might discern in his affections, or a lack in her ability to believe in them. So she had not dared think of Jaime’s love, or speak of it. Instead, she lets him come to her bed, night after night; gives him only permission, and not an answer. 

Is this penance? 

Sacrifice?

She opens the door to her— _their_ chambers. Jaime reclines lazily in a chair, his feet propped up on a windowsill. He turns to her, and smiles; he is so beautiful, framed by the lush green of the rainwood.

The water in the air, breathed in, weighs on her lungs. It should not compare to a suit of armour, yet she thinks she might prefer the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Brienne isn't going to hide in a cave for 3 days. They're going to have an ACTUAL CONVERSATION next chapter. Or as close to one as these dummies can manage at this point.


	17. Chapter 17

“You survived,” Jaime grins from his chair as Brienne crosses the room.

“Survived?”

“Your meeting with Lady Mary,” he says. “She does not seem one to hold her tongue, even in the presence of her liege lady.”

Brienne comes to stand behind him, and rests her hands upon his shoulders. “No,” she replies. “She does not.”

Jaime tilts his head back to look up at her. “Was she rude to you?”

“Not quite.” Absently, she kneads her thumbs into the space between his shoulder blades. “How is your back?”

“It is better,” he says, lifting his left hand to grasp hers. “I said the same when you asked me two hours ago.”

“I am only concerned, Lord Jaime.”

“And I am grateful that you are, Lady Brienne.”

There is something about this moment that she wants to hold still forever. Jaime’s hand in hers; his steady gaze. The gentle bickering that is so familiar to them, and so new. It is heavy, all of it—it is difficult to breathe—but it is soft too, and not unwelcome. This is not the time for armour, she realises. It will not fit her, anyway.

She bends forward, and shifts her hands up to hold his cheeks. It is awkward with her height, and her belly in the way, but she manoeuvres her face over Jaime’s, and captures his lips. It is the wrong way around, but it does not matter. There is novelty in this kiss, despite the kisses that have come before, and she smiles as her nose brushes the ends of his beard. Jaime is smiling too, the wrong way around; his lips curve away from hers, but it does not matter. When she opens her eyes, she does not see his. Only his hand resting upon his chest. But it does not matter.

“This is new,” Jaime drawls, just as Brienne whispers three quite different words. He stiffens beneath her— “What did you say?”

It is easier to say when she does not have to look into his eyes. The ends of his beard, his hand resting upon his chest—this is all she has to see, and it makes it easier to say:

“I—I love you.”

She has told Jaime this only twice in her life. Both times within this room. That has to be worth _something_ , but he does not move. Perhaps this moment will hold still forever, as she had wished; she will not have to look into his eyes to see that she was wrong after all. Everything she had believed between Lady Mary’s solar and this chamber was simply—

“Brienne—” she hears him gasp, feels his breath upon her chin, then he is half tumbling out of his seat and she almost recoils from the shock of it. Then he is pushing her against the nearest wall, then he has his fingers in her hair. Then he is kissing her again—the right way around, this time. _I love you_ , he tells her once, twice, then again between every meeting of their lips. She understands—he must have wanted to tell her so many times. Perhaps he already had, each time he wrapped an arm around her in the night, but now he can be sure that she hears it, and he will not let that chance go. To her ears, the words seem to echo; an affirmation for every night they spent together, and every night they spent apart. It is such a strange sound that she has to laugh.

“Do not laugh at me,” he murmurs, and kisses her again. “I had not dared hope I would ever be able to tell you, let alone hear it from your lips.”

“I know.”

“You know? You understand that I—”

“I know.”

“Brienne—I would do anything— _anything_ —”

She silences him with a kiss of her own. His words remind her of penance, and she does not want to be reminded of that. All she wants is to think that she loves him. She has not let herself love him in so long. It is so heavy, and difficult to breathe, and soft, and not unwelcome. It is—it is so _liberating_. Above all, it is _safe_. She will receive love in return, and not pity, or pain. It is safe to love Jaime. It is safe.

There is enjoyment to be found in the humidity, if one knows how to look. This must be some secret of the rainwood. The water in the air, breathed in, weighs on her lungs; she imagines it is Jaime, all of him, filling her. In bed, they are the same being. Every cry, every moan, every whimper on the same beat. The air turns to water on their skin, glides; she tastes it upon his neck, just as he must taste it upon her breast. There is no telling where she ends and he begins. She would have it no other way.

No armour. Not even the one he had made for her.

The sun is setting by the time they are done—by the time she remembers his words again. The dying sunlight is something magical in the rainwood; another secret scattered through the mist and the leaves. She slips an arm around Jaime’s waist, and tries to pull him into her. She cannot be as close to him as before—the babe has been growing for over six moons now—or maybe this is closer still. He is the father of her child, this child that rests between them. Her belly presses against his, in a way that is so familiar, and so new.

“I do not want you to—to do anything,” she says, pressing her forehead to his. She can feel the furrow of his brow with her own.

“What?”

“Before. You said would do anything—”

“I would.” He brings his stump up to graze her cheek. “Whatever it takes, I—”

“That is not what I want.”

“But—how—”

“I only mean—I do not need you to—” she grapples for the right word— “to _diminish_ yourself for my sake.”

His frown deepens. “Is this about… You are still upset about the cave.”

“It is not just the cave, it is—” She exhales, and leaves the slightest gap between their foreheads. “I know how much you would give for the ones you—for those whom you feel are worth your sacrifice.” 

“ _You_ are worth—”

“No—it is not that.” She had considered it in the time since they left the cave, but it is not about her worth, or it is not _just_ that. “You have risked your life for me. I know you would do it again, if need be. But all I’ve ever asked is that you—you _live_. When I begged you to stay—”

Jaime leans in to kiss her. Just a second ago, they were in the courtyard in Winterfell, but now they are in a bed in Mistwood. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed. “How else am I to atone for what I have done?”

Atonement. Penance. _Guilt_. She dislikes those words intensely. They are the words of a hateful man, or a man who calls himself so.

“I do not wish for your atonement,” she says. “You told me once this was not obligation. That you—you _want_ —”

He opens his eyes, startled. “Yes, but—I have done you wrong. I must—”

“Yes. You have. But now—now I only want you to come to me as you are. Whole.” She turns her head so she can put her lips to his stump. “That is what you have proved yourself to be, is it not? In the past two years. Without your sister. Without me.”

He slides his stump down her back, and hides it there. There it is—a flash—the uneasiness without his hand that comes so rarely now. “I did not feel whole,” he says. “Each time I saw you in King’s Landing, I had this—this _ache_ —”

She knows. She had ached too, even if she had told herself she did not. “So you ache. So you have scars, and sometimes they still bleed. But I do not wish you to—to _wound_ yourself further for me. Just to prove—”

“It is not _just_ to prove,” he insists. “It is simply—that is how I have always—”

Jaime stops, and looks down. He must have felt the babe move just then, with his belly pressed against hers.

“I have become convinced that it can hear us,” Brienne says, looking down too. “Even my thoughts, sometimes.”

He nods once, and shifts against her. His stump comes out of hiding to trace the arc of her belly. “She wants to make herself known.”

“ _She?_ ”

He smiles. “I should like to think of the babe as a girl until I am proved otherwise.”

“You would give yourself false hope?”

“It is not false. It is only—it makes the babe feel more… _alive_ , to me. So I will be happy if I am right. And happy if I am wrong.”

Brienne brings her hand to her belly too. The babe is restless inside her now, turning. “If only it—” she cannot bring herself to call it _she_ , if only from the lack of certainty— “had been so lively in Lady Mary’s solar. I feigned discomfort in the end, so I could leave.”

“So you had to _escape_ ,” Jaime muses. “And you came back to tell me…”

“Yes,” she says shortly, only just realising the danger in mentioning the dowager, given how that discussion had progressed. But Jaime will only grow more curious if she changes the subject, so she decides to tell him: “She said she had seen you once, long ago.”

“House Mertyns… yes, I am sure we must have crossed paths at least once. I expect she called me Kingslayer then.”

They will not dwell on that part of his past. Instead, Brienne says—regretting it a second later— “She thinks you more handsome, now.”

“Does she?” he smirks; hardly visible, with the sunlight all but gone. “And what did you say to that?”

She casts her eyes over his shoulder. “I said I would not know. I have not known you so long.”

“You blush.” His stump is back on her cheek. 

“You cannot know.” She rolls away from him, and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. “It is dark in this room.”

“I felt it. Your cheeks were warm to the touch.”

Brienne stays silent as she rises, and moves to light the lanterns that hang around their chamber.

“You would walk before me unclothed,” Jaime teases. “And tell me that you love me. Yet you blush at—”

“I did not blush,” she says, without looking back at him.

“Do you not think me handsome, my lady? Old and crippled as I am?”

This makes her turn sharply towards the bed. “Must you call yourself—”

A knock at the door. Of course—they are to sup with Lady Mary. Hurriedly, they dress; Brienne hoping all the while that their host will be tactful, or that any intimations can be evaded without too much effort, or nerves. But she need not have worried. Lady Mary is who she is, but so is Jaime. He sidesteps the dowager’s remarks so deftly, pleases the old woman with his wit. _Another point in his favour_ , Lady Mary must think. That is what Brienne hears each time she meets the dowager’s eyes.

It is hours before Brienne thinks again of the words she and Jaime had exchanged that afternoon—words of love, and of worth; of what is needed to heal, and what it means to be whole. By then, she can barely keep her eyes open. She will dream, instead, of their half conversations. Mere fragments. Kisses the wrong way around. Incomplete sentences, and thoughts they have yet to put into words. A child that turns in her belly, who has no name, or sex. A man, whom she loves, whom she might yet make her husband.

Yes. She just might—

In the morning, Jaime wakes her. He calls her _my love_. She wrinkles her nose, and he laughs, and kisses her. _My love_ , he says again. _My love. My love._ Each one a small droplet that sits upon her chest. _My love._ She inhales these droplets; this morning dew. It is not so difficult to breathe. _My love. Jaime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Brienne watched Spider-Man (2002) and took notes...
> 
> (I wove in quite a few threads into their conversation that I'll have to pick up later, because I didn't want it to feel like everything was resolved by just this one realisation. Still—a huge realisation~)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. I'M ALIVE. I've been consumed with work but hoping to be a bit more regular with updating this story in the coming weeks!

Of course—when it is easier to smile, and to laugh, at least when she is alone with Jaime; to kiss him without fear that he might choose, after everything, to pull away; to let him call her _my love_ , let him tease her when she will only mouth it silently in return; to think, even, of names they might give the child, though she will not discuss these names with its father yet—of course that is when the bandits come.

It is not the bandits, of course, that pose any particular challenge. Oathkeeper tastes blood for the first time in months, though not as much as Widow’s Wail. Jaime was right—he _is_ a better swordsman than all her men, even with his left. He stays by her side throughout the attack, as he had on a battlefield once before; he steps in front of her time and again, as he had in a bear pit so many years ago. But she can still wield a sword, even if she cannot move quite so freely now. She and Jaime have been making full use of each keep’s training yard, devising movements to accommodate the changes in her body. The bandits had seen her belly—or perhaps known of it in planning their attack—and underestimated her. She takes full advantage of that, even as Jaime tries to shield her at every turn.

The bandits do not trouble them much at all. Some of the attackers are killed, while Brienne’s party suffers relatively minor wounds; two men are even captured, though the rest manage to flee. The prisoners will be brought with them—Lord Whitehead must deal with them at the Weeping Tower, their southernmost destination before heading back north to the capital—and the men do not struggle, resigned as they are to their fate.

No, it is not the bandits. It is—

“Jaime—you are _bleeding_.”

He looks down. There is a cut across his thigh, wide. “Hmm,” he says, running a finger over the edge of the wound. “It does not seem so deep. Although I shall need to change my—”

He had straightened his back, or tried to; his hand flies to his right side with a groan.

“What—” Brienne turns to summon her maester, only to find that he is attending to one of her guards. She moves to unlace Jaime’s jerkin instead. “Where is the pain? How—”

“Do not concern yourself.” He holds her hand to his chest, though he winces as he does so. “I am sure it is only bruised.”

“We cannot be certain until—”

“I have inhabited this body for well over four decades. I have— _we_ have suffered injuries much worse than this.”

There is something in his response—in the way he had waved his wooden hand between them as he spoke—that makes an annoyance grow within her. Conscious of their men standing nearby, she lowers her voice. “If you had not insisted on throwing yourself in front of me—”

Jaime narrows his eyes. “I should not have defended you?” he whispers back.

“When we fight, we fight _together_. You do not fight _for me_.”

“You are _with child_. What good am I if I cannot protect you and the babe?”

“What good are you to me _dead_?”

He jerks back. “I am _barely_ injured.”

“And what happens when you—when you—”

The world goes black for a moment.

She is in Jaime’s arms. He is lowering her to the ground, and waving her men back, those who have rushed to her side. _My lady_ , someone says, from somewhere far away. Her maester, she thinks. But she sees him bending over her. That is not far away at all.

“I… I am fine,” she says, attempting to sit up. To her relief, she feels a kick from the babe; one hand goes to her belly.

“You are _not_. If I had not caught you just then—” Jaime grimaces, and arches awkwardly.

“You will see to… to Lord Jaime’s wounds,” she tells the maester.

“You will attend to your lady,” Jaime counters. “And see that she and the babe are both well.”

“I am _fine_ ,” Brienne insists, even as her maester examines her. “And so is the babe.”

“That is not for you to decide.”

“And it is not for _you_ to—”

Her vision blurs again, and her fingers go to her temple. This traitorous body. Of all times to weaken—

“My lady has exerted herself,” her maester says. “I would advise that she rest for a day, if not two. It would do some of the men good as well.”

“How far are we from the Weeping Town?” Jaime asks.

“Half a day’s journey, Lord Jaime,” replies one of her men. “But there are villages along the way.”

Once all the wounds are dressed, and Brienne assured that Jaime has no broken bones, they make their way slowly to the closest village. It is a small one, and quiet; its inn is hardly even an inn. A cottage owned by a young widow, it has only one spare room besides the woman’s own, and the common room—if it could even be called that—is not large enough to accommodate their entire party. But Jaime will not hear of them travelling any further. There is a barn in the village at least, where the men may shelter while keeping watch over their two prisoners, and the widow promises to feed them all. Brienne and Jaime will take her spare room for the night, though they are told that the bed is only large enough for one.

“Do not say it,” Jaime says, as he lays out his bedroll on the floor next to the bed.

“Say… what?” asks Brienne.

“You are thinking that I should take the bed.”

“I know better than to suggest it.” They will only argue again, and she does not wish to argue with Jaime.

He sighs. “You must not be so precious with me.”

“It is not _preciousness_. You are wounded.” She walks over to the bed, and sits down. “Besides, I could say the same of you. You know that I am still able to fight. We were sparring as recently as Mistwood.”

“I admit, I was too eager to protect you. But after? If you had fallen, and I had not been there to catch you?”

She has nothing to say to that. Only puts her hand to her belly again, and watches as Jaime smooths out his bedroll with more effort than seems necessary. She cannot remember the last time she felt faint. Exhausted, drained, but never _faint_. For the first time since they departed Tarth, she wonders if it will be wise to travel for so long. The babe will come in three moons or so, and it might be another moon before they arrive in King’s Landing. She had hoped to have the child at Evenfall Hall, but if they are delayed at the Red Keep…

“Do you think—” she begins, then bites her lip.

Jaime looks up. “Yes?”

“If we… return to Tarth. After I meet with Lord Whitehead. We could sail from the Weeping Town, and avoid the storms of Shipbreaker Bay.”

He stands, gingerly, careful of the bruises on his side. A frown is forming on his brow. “You do not feel strong enough to travel to King’s Landing?”

“I am fine,” she repeats, for what feels like the hundredth time today. “It is only—I wish to return to Tarth before the babe comes. I am concerned that our journey will take longer than expected, or that travel will become… difficult.”

“Hmm.” Jaime comes to the bed, and sits beside her. “There will be much to discuss with my brother, if not the king.”

“I know.” It is not only the question of marriage, or of heirs; they are liege lords both, and they rule from opposite shores. Arrangements will have to be made, arrangements she had not wanted to think of until they reached the capital. “I could write to your brother,” she suggests. “Invite him to Tarth.”

“You could. Or I could go alone to King’s—”

“No!” she exclaims. It was louder than she had intended, and had startled even herself. She feels Jaime’s hand slip into hers.

“I will make no decisions without your consent,” he says, gripping her hand.

“It is not that. I do not wish to—” Brienne exhales; there are no words to explain her outburst. She is still shaken from the events of the day—that must be it. “We must speak to your brother together.”

“Alright.” He squeezes her hand again. “We can decide how best to proceed on the morrow. You must rest—I will not have you faint again.”

“And you—”

“I _will_.”

Brienne had not thought herself tired, but she falls into a restless sleep for the remaining hours of the afternoon. When she wakes, it is almost dusk; her stomach rumbles, and the babe protests alongside it. She looks over to Jaime’s bedroll and—

He is not there. Her mind goes—not to a courtyard in Winterfell, but to the earlier part of the day, to the bandits, to the blow after blow from which Jaime had shielded her. Suddenly she imagines that the cut on his thigh is deep, much deeper than she recalls, that it will not stop bleeding even now, that it is only one of many cuts on his body—then, _his screams_ , the same screams from when they took his hand—

The door opens, and she looks up. Jaime is standing in the doorway, a bowl in his hand. “I brought you—is something wrong?” He sets the bowl on the small table by the window, and rushes over. “You are pale. Do you feel—”

“No—I—I was only—” She was about to call it a bad dream, but she had been awake when it had occurred. “Jaime—”

“Yes?” He is kneeling before her, and has his palm to her cheek. “What is it?”

“I do not think I could— _I cannot lose you again_.”

His eyes widen. “What are you—I’m _here_. I am not going anywhere.”

“I will not have you—risking your life. Or, or going off alone, without me. I will not—”

“I _won’t_.” He kisses her cheek. “I promise you. I’m here.”

It is some time before she feels she can truly breathe again. Jaime had soothed her all the while, whispering _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._ When she is finally able to rise from the bed, and seat herself at the table to eat the broth that Jaime brought her, she is surprised to find that it is still warm. It has not been so long, then, since she had woken to find him gone. It had felt like hours.

Jaime sits at the table with her, and watches her eat. He had not napped long in the afternoon, and had been well fed by the widow while Brienne slept.

“She lost her husband a few years ago,” he says. “When they had only been three years wed. She tells me he died in a war, but could not tell me which one.”

“How awful.”

Jaime shrugs. “In truth, I do not think she minds. She speaks as if it was not a happy union.” He leans in a little closer. “In fact, I suspect she may have taken a liking to one of my men.”

Brienne dips her spoon into her broth. “Has she?”

“She smiles at him so sweetly. He may yet find a bed to sleep in tonight.”

“ _Jaime_ ,” she scolds.

“I see no harm, if they are both agreeable.” His foot nudges hers under the table. “Do you judge them?”

“I do _not_.”

“You _do_ ,” he chuckles. “They will find some small pleasure in this. I suppose it must be worth something, even if she will only have him for a night or two.”

She takes a spoonful of broth into her mouth, and holds the spoon’s curve upon her tongue.

“What now?” Jaime probes.

“It is nothing.” Brienne slips her spoon back in her bowl. “Only—I had thought something similar in King’s Landing. And in Winterfell, for that matter.”

“You mean… that we would only have one night?”

She shakes her head. “That I might be… satisfied. With just one.”

He nods. “I told myself the same. When I awoke in the Red Keep to find you gone.”

It is something they had both learned to do, she realises. To be satisfied only with what they had—with the little affection they could receive, in whatever form. To earn it only by giving, serving, sacrificing; to _diminish_ themselves, their desires, their hopes, all for the sake of another. She had pointed a finger at Jaime, but she has been guilty of that too, has she not? Now, she wants—she _wants_ —she wants _more_. She can _have more_. She wants to be with the man she loves, always. She wants him alive, and to grow old by her side. She wants him to be a father to their child, the way he could not to the children that came before. She wants him to be her—

“When we arrive in the Weeping Town,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“At the Weeping Tower.” The tip of her finger rests on the rim of her bowl. “There will be a sept.”

Jaime stills. “Yes. I—I should expect so.”

“Will you… Would you—”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Alright.” She takes a breath. “That is settled, then.”

Something settles within her too, at last—that thing that had shifted inside her at Mistwood, but could not seem to find its place. _Yes, of course._ This is how it should be. She looks down at the broth in her bowl, and thinks she should finish it before it goes cold. But she has been intercepted by Jaime—Jaime, who is kissing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's _such_ a shocker that they're actually finally getting married. I'm sure none of you saw it coming. 
> 
> I'm slowly getting a sense of how I could end this story, but I think there's still quite a decent amount to explore, including how they're going to work out the logistical nightmare of parenting-while-bicoastal-liege-lording.
> 
> P.S. The Weeping Town/Tower is mentioned very briefly in that same TWOW sample chapter that had Mistwood in it, so you know, I'm just gonna... write whatever...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I forget this began as a fix-it. Or rather, I didn't think this fix-it would involve them just hanging out in Westeros for chapters on end without having to fight any wars or lose any more hands.

They are not, in the end, wed at the Weeping Tower. On the outskirts of the Weeping Town, they come across a modest sept, with a septon willing to preside over the ceremony at short notice. It suits Brienne that there will be no grandeur to this wedding—she appreciates the privacy, and there will be other occasions for highborn guests and extravagant feasts—and it suits Jaime that they will be married sooner rather than later.

The septon is a young, dark-haired man, with a nervous disposition; during the prayers, he stumbles three or four times. But he has an accommodating nature, and there is so much to accommodate. There is the abruptness of their request; there is her swelling belly. There is the fact that she has no wedding gown, and no father to escort her. Jaime has no house colours, only his plain travelling cloak. They will have to make do in many respects, but the septon does not take issue with any of it. He reminds her, in fact, a little of Pod. These days, she only sees Pod when she is in King’s Landing—he had earned himself a place in the Kingsguard—and she is sorry that they will not cross paths in a few weeks as planned.

No, she thinks they will not. She would like to return to Tarth, for the babe’s sake. Maybe it is for her own too, and Jaime’s. Two or three moons’ peace they will have to themselves, to make up for the fraught weeks they had spent there not so long ago.

The rest of the ceremony proceeds smoothly enough. Brienne goes to Jaime, alone; she is wearing the light blue dress she had picked out this morning, when the day held only the journey to the Weeping Town. Then, she elects to remove her cloak with her own hands. In turn, Jaime puts his travelling cloak about her shoulders, a sensible dark brown rather than rich Lannister crimson. She must help him with this, since he will struggle with his one hand. Yet this feels right to her: that she should secure his cloak around her, of her own volition. A cloak that is Jaime’s own, that does not carry the name Lannister.

The words come: _one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever_. Just like that, it is done. To her surprise, their party erupts into rapturous cheers; loud whistles pierce the air, warming her cheeks.

“They must be relieved,” Jaime murmurs. “They have had to put up with us for too long.”

“You speak as if we were so intolerable,” she murmurs back. Jaime only grins, and kisses her.

And so they are married. It feels no different than before. That is what Brienne thinks as they make their way through the Weeping Town, its lively streets hardly as dreary as the name implies. They are in a new place, yes, and there are new things to see. But deep down, it all feels so— _routine_. She and Jaime are travelling together this afternoon, and they will go to bed together tonight, and they will wake together the next morning, just as they have done since Storm’s End. How strange that she had refused to think of marriage for so long, when each one of those nights—no, each morning that she woke to find him still beside her—had brought her one step closer. She had not been so conscious of it, but it is the only explanation: she had already grown accustomed to having Jaime as her husband. Now that they are bound in the eyes of the Seven, _it feels no different._

Until, some short time after they arrived at the Weeping Tower, old Lord Whitehead approaches her tentatively to ask:

“Pardon me, my lady—are you to be addressed as Lady Lannister?”

As she had instructed, Lord Whitehead had been discreetly informed of the marriage; she had hoped to avoid too much uncomfortable conversation on the matter, until such time that she could speak to him with some delicacy. She had not imagined that she would be foiled by so unassuming a question, about a name that is anything but.

“Lady Brienne would suffice,” she replies. It is not a true answer, and she is grateful that Lord Whitehead responds with nothing more than a nod. _Lady Brienne_ would not suffice for long. She might feel no difference in taking Jaime as her husband, but to her bannermen…

“I wonder if we should not have informed Lord Whitehead of our marriage,” she tells Jaime, as she climbs into bed that night.

“Why not?”

“It brings up too many questions we cannot yet answer.” She sighs, and looks over to where he stands by his side of the bed. “This afternoon, he asked if I’m to be addressed as Lady Lannister.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

Jaime tilts his head. “Is it so different from the questions you have been asked before? Did Lady Mary not ask if I have influence over the Stormlands?”

“Well, yes, but—” Brienne lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “You do understand why I could not answer Lord Whitehead. What it would mean for the Stormlands, one way or the other—”

“I understand. Still, it wouldn’t do to hide it from him. Should he find out later by other means, it will only make things more difficult.”

“I know.” She sinks deeper into the pillows. “He was kind enough not to pursue the matter today, but tomorrow—”

“Tell him the truth. That we are to meet with my brother to discuss the terms of our alliance. Assure him that the Stormlands will be safe.”

“Will that be enough, do you think?”

Brienne hears no reply. Just as she means to glance back at him, she is startled by a sudden chill, and by the yelp of protest that escapes her.

“We must not discuss politics on our wedding night,” says Jaime, who has just flung back the covers. “Come here.”

She knows what he means to do, even before his knees touch the floor. Quicker than she would dare admit, she is on the edge of the bed, with her legs spread before him and her shift gathered about her hips. She has worn no smallclothes; it is her wedding night. If Jaime smirks at her for this, then she forgets it the moment he dips his head. He has done this to her dozens of times, and it should feel no different than before. But something has changed. _Something feels different._ Tonight, it seems as if Jaime reaches into the very core of her. It is only his tongue, his lips, his teeth, his fingers; it is only those parts of him on a single part of her. But the words come: _one flesh, one heart, one soul—_

“Did you… do something differently?” she asks, once she has caught her breath.

“Not that I recall. I suppose I might have.” He gets to his feet, then collapses on the bed beside her. “I don’t think quite so much when… Why do you ask?”

“It felt…”

“Better?”

She nods.

“Then I am sorry I don’t recall.” He turns onto his side so he can kiss her. She tastes something other than Jaime; herself, she realises. When he pulls away, he gives her another smirk. “Perhaps it is different now that I am your husband.”

“Surely not,” she scoffs, unthinkingly.

“You would dismiss me so easily, wife?”

She ignores the shiver down her spine at his last word. “I cannot see how our vows might have changed… _this_. If my body is any different from yesterday, it is only because the babe grows.”

“Well.” Between them, Jaime nudges his stump into her palm. “The words we spoke today. They were a sort of… oath, were they not?”

“… Yes. I would think so.”

“Oaths have always given you strength. Anchored you.”

Her fingers wrap around his stump while she ponders this thought. “Does pleasure not come with… with the opposite? With freedom?”

He shrugs. “To be anchored is not to be chained.”

Their first afternoon in Mistwood comes back to her—when she had told him, finally, of her love. She remembers how safe she had felt, and how free; how one could not be felt without the other. “Do you?” she asks. “Feel… anchored?”

“I do.”

“Would it have—” She looks away from him. She should not ask this of him, and yet there is an ache in her chest now, some yearning to know if things could have been different. “If we had—in Winterfell—”

“I—I don’t know,” he stammers, alarmed. “I don’t think…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—forget I asked.”

“Don’t—I would have—” His hand is on her chin, turning her head towards him. “I believe I would have married you,” he says. “But it might not have—there is a chance I might still have left. At the time, I… It would have caused you more pain.”

She nods. She does not want to think of Winterfell. She has been thinking so little of it, and she should not have brought it up at all. There is nothing she can do to change what had happened, nothing she could have done. But there is a way for her to forget now. Her hand reaches over to lift his tunic, then slips towards his smallclothes and—

“Wait.”

She forces her gaze up; finds concern in Jaime’s eyes. “What for?”

He takes her wandering hand by her wrist, rests it on her belly. “You don’t have to—to bury it,” he says, covering her hand with his own. “You can still be—I will not mind if you mention it. If you still find yourself angry at me. Or upset, or scared. Because of what I did.”

“I don’t want it to—to have this hold on me.” She casts her eyes down to their hands—to the babe. “On us. It would be punishment for us all.”

“It isn’t so easy to… Do you remember—at Mistwood, you told me our scars might still bleed, sometimes.”

“I wish they wouldn’t,” she says uselessly.

“Perhaps one day they won’t.” He squeezes her hand. “Until then, I only ask that you… that you tell me when the thoughts come. You don’t have to tell me what they are, but—if you would tell me what you need from me. If you wish to be left alone—or to talk—or to spar, or fuck, or—”

“ _Jaime_ —” She whips her head towards him. _I am not your—_ “We have discussed this. You must not let me… _use_ you.”

“There is use, and there is—” Jaime exhales. “It is different. I have been… I will know when I am being used.”

An urge begins to spread within her. She cannot say what, or why exactly. But there is something in Jaime’s words, his tone. And there is something she wishes to—to _prove_. It is not Jaime who must always shelter her, tend to her. If that does not change, then Winterfell imprisons them forever.

“Will you—” She sits up. “Let me—”

She gestures for him to move, to sit back against the pillows. Jaime seems confused by this, but complies. Then she takes her shift by its hem, and lifts it over her head in one swift movement. His eyes widen, but he follows suit, discarding his tunic by the bedside. Slowly, from where she sits to the side of him, she loosens the laces of his smallclothes.

“Tell me what you need from me,” she says, hooking her fingers into the fabric at his waist.

“What I… Brienne—”

“Tell me.” She nudges at him to lift his hips, and he does. “What have you wanted but dared not ask for?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he insists. “You let me share your bed each night. That is—it is more than I—”

She pulls his smallclothes down his legs, and tugs it over his ankles. She discards it on the floor by the bed, where his tunic pools, and her shift. Since that desperate night in the training yard on Tarth, he has been so gentle with her, so tender. If there were times that were more vigorous, it was only because she had wished it. If he had demanded anything of her— _come here_ , he had said just now—it was only to give her pleasure.

But he is not her servant. He is her husband.

“Ask me.” She reaches between his thighs. “I can still refuse.”

“There is—there is nothing,” he rasps. “I swear.”

Her fingers curl around him; dance. A soft hiss escapes Jaime’s lips. There were things he had asked of her in Winterfell, she remembers, things he had not yet asked of her in the Stormlands. With her belly, one or two might be challenging, but the rest…

Brienne reaches for his cheek, her other hand never leaving him. “Ask me, my love. Don’t be afraid.”

“I—” he breathes. “I want—”

So does she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so, so, so close to changing the rating on this fic. But I committed to Mature and I shall not succumb!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat) for the handholding as always!


End file.
